


All Were Innocent Once

by greencrusader13



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Backstory, Betrayal, F/M, Friendship, M/M, Old Republic Era, Pre-Star Wars: The Old Republic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2019-09-21 11:38:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17043032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greencrusader13/pseuds/greencrusader13
Summary: Set years before the Cold War, back when those who would become its greatest heroes and monsters were still young and untested. As galactic events unfold that will shape their futures, some rise while others fall to the dark. Friends become adversaries, and former enemies become temporary allies as their paths cross and intertwine, destiny inexorably approaching. Rated Mature for some violence and mild sexuality.





	1. Cirak Kiht

With each passing second Cirak Kiht grew more frustrated. Just outside the window their high-rise apartment the traffic of the Smuggler's Moon hummed through the skylanes, but that was not the reason he lay awake. It wasn't the ominous red lettering of the eviction warning on the holopad lying on an end table a few meters away. Even the loud arguing of other neighbors didn't bother the cathar teen. They'd get by; Kihts always get by, he'd been told once years ago.

No, it was the final few seconds until a broken promise. Cirak, lying on his back, held the chronometer in front of his face, close enough that his rapidly waning vision wouldn't misconstrue the letters. The flickering blue light strained his eyes, and the remaining time forced him to remain awake.

5…4…3…

He didn't know what he expected. That the man would barge through the front door, his pockets lined with credits? That somehow, despite all odds, he'd have pulled off one more daring stunt, one that would effortlessly earn Cirak's forgiveness for leaving them with nothing more than food money and a hold-out blaster?

2…1…

Cirak lifted his gaze from the chronometer with one final fleeting glance. The metal door leading inside would just need to roll open. Everything would be okay.

0.

The chronometer buzzed in his hands, but Cirak could only hear his father's final words before boarding his ship: "If I'm not back in a month, I'm not coming back." It hadn't been the first time he'd heard those words, but every other time he'd been back in a week or two. Now…

Cirak tossed the chronometer to the floor where it continued vibrating until he seized it up once more. His younger brother Tyar – still just a little kid – slept a room over. Cirak knew the damage was done, though: somehow Tyar always knew when something happened, even when Cirak moved quieter than the wind. He'd know that Cirak was still awake, that he'd spiked the chronometer, and, most of all, that their father hadn't returned.

Kihts always get by. It was just another deception. Their father wasn't ever coming home again. The last job for a while ended up being the last job period. Cirak shut his eyes, inhaling as he clenched his fists. Perhaps, in some ways, this was more of a mercy than when Mom died, the illness that took her being long and drawn out while she grew continually weaker. Tyar was so young back then. He had no memories from time before she'd gotten sick, let alone the visits to her wretched hospital room or Dad agonizing over the seemingly unpayable bills. How would he react knowing that their father wasn't coming home?

Cirak leaned his head back over the edge of the couch and refocused on the traffic. He'd been promised a speeder, as had Tyar for when he grew older. Both of them would be green to stand out against the crimson light of the streets below. Not the dull green-brown color of filth either, but real viridian that gleamed. Now it was just another thing that would never happen.

It was the twi'lek's fault – Nuromo Bek, or something. They'd spoken while on his father's ship, their voices low while Tyar played with the astromech droid in the background. "It'll pay well," he'd heard Nuromo say, "You won't have to do any more for some time with this kind of cash. Maybe even an apartment on Coruscant where your boys'll be safer. The Republic-"

He hadn't caught the rest of Nuromo's pitch, as it was then that Tyar had thrown his model of a VX-5 Ricker at the back of Cirak's neck, the sound of which abruptly ended their conversation.

Sitting up, Cirak swung his legs out over the couch and picked up his pack from off the ground. Five blaster packs for the hold-out pistol and a credit chit that would get them by for another week lay inside. Anyone with a blaster could make some kind of living if they had to on Nar Shaddaa, even if they were only a teen.

He aimed the blaster at the wall ahead of him, and then jerked it up in imitation of the recoil while mouthing the sounds it made. His father usually took him to the landfill for practice on vermin, his hands on Cirak's shoulders while coaching him on proper technique. They'd find scrapped electronics down there as well, and Cirak would practice anything from reassembling broken appliances to hotwiring speeders; anything to survive. Soon, he figured, he'd have to do the same for his little brother. Tyar was barely old enough to be able to hold a blaster, but it would be better to learn early than die young.

"Cee?"

Cirak turned his head towards the small voice in the darkness. Though Tyar's black fur concealed him in the shadows, he could vaguely make out his younger brother's silhouette against the open doorframe of their bedroom. He clutched one of his model starfighters close to his chest, the last one their father had brought home from one of his jobs. The lights of a passing taxi illuminated a line across his brother's face, revealing his narrowed red eyes.

He sat up, looking over his little brother. "Hey kid. Did I wake you?"

Tyar shook his head. "Nuh-uh."

Pursing his lips, Cirak let his head fall back against the back cushion. "Go back to sleep then," he said, closing his eyes. He knew that he'd have to have this conversation eventually, but not in the middle of the night. Not before he'd had the chance to process it himself.

Footsteps pattered against the ground, and Cirak felt the couch shift as Tyar added new pressure to it. His head slumped against Cirak's shoulder. "I can't sleep," Tyar said, "Something doesn't feel right, like something's wrong."

That's because something is wrong, Cirak thought, opening his eyes. "Tyar, I said go back to bed."

Despite the harshness in Cirak's voice, Tyar held his ground, shaking his head in mute defiance. For an instant Cirak thought of smashing Tyar's toy, anything to get him away right now, but he knew he'd never forgive him for it, not after learning the reason for his anger in the first place.

"Cee, do you feel it too?"

"Sure kid."

"Like, it feels really really scary."

Never had he nor their father understood Tyar's…feelings. They weren't premonitions, not exactly, but almost like he could feel the ripples across a pond before anyone else had seen the water disturbed. Tyar couldn't tell the winning lotto numbers for a given night, though admittedly their father had tried numerous times in partial jest, but always in smaller, stranger ways. He could tell when there'd been a speeder crash some several blocks down well before seeing the wreckage, and somehow he could always sense what they were feeling even if neither he nor their father had said a single word.

Probably like now. Cirak bit down on his lower lip as he focused on the words that needed saying, hoping he'd find some way of making them come easier. He waited, but even after a prolonged silence he could only taste blood in his mouth, a stream of which so small that it barely even registered.

"Tyar," he started, "Come on-"

Yelling penetrated the metal walls of their apartment, silencing him as the sudden cacophony of voices overwhelmed the previously-still night. It couldn't be any Imps, as stories said they operated with silent precision, and the voices sounded far too violent for the normally diplomatic Republic soldiers. It had to be one of the swoop gangs, some members of which Cirak knew lived in the building. Perhaps they'd angered another group, or maybe infighting dogged them now. Cirak gripped the blaster again and braced his arm over Tyar.

Flashes of red light followed soon after as the two rival gangs unloaded on one another. Sounds of blaster-fire screamed down the hall. Cirak had expected only a few shots, like usual, but they continued far longer. Every now and then he'd hear an anguished cry and the thud from a collapsing body. Tyar shrunk closer to him, his hands gripping at Cirak's shirt.

The entire apartment suddenly rattled as an explosion rang out from upstairs. More screaming followed. This wasn't some hit. It was gang warfare.

Cirak pointed the blaster at the main apartment door, readying himself for anything. Anyone coming in would get shot: gang member, old lady, or even a Hutt himself. All he had to do was pull the trigger. His breath shook, and he fought the shaking in his hand that would inadvertently worsen his aim. Rapid heartbeats joined the din in his ears, and it took all his concentration to not turn and run into the other room with Tyar in tow.

The door clanged as a small object hit it, the sound only barely audible above the chaos. A shout followed, muffled, but he could still vaguely make out the words: "Det bomb!"

He dove, pressing Tyar close to his chest as they hit the ground. A bright flash and intense heat filled the apartment in an instant. Their door flew inwards, toppling their couch backwards and sending it crashing out through the window. Both vanished into the black of Nar Shaddaa's depths. The madness outside seemed even louder now, and more visceral.

Ringing drowned out his thoughts. Wind buffeted the back of his head, and he only then realized that his feet had swung out over the edge. Any further and he would've been launched out as well. His throat burned, and as sound returned to his ears he realized what he was calling. "Tyar!" Cirak squeezed. The body against his own shook, but he could hardly tell if it was his own shaking or not.

Cirak inched forward, wincing in pain as he scraped his knees over broken glass and set his brother in front of him. The boy managed to keep his balance, but only barely. In Tyar's arms lay the hold-out blaster. How did we not lose that?

But there wasn't any time for senseless pondering. The violence continued further ahead down the hall, but far lessened compared to moments ago, the fire rate coming slower than before. Cirak glanced at the hole in their apartment. They were vulnerable without the security of their home. At best the gangs would kill them on their way out after searching their home for goods, looting the place in the process. More likely, though, they wouldn't; the slave trade provided far better credits than loot.

"We need to go." Cirak pulled on Tyar's shoulders, leading him into a nearby corner. "It's not safe here like this."

Tyar shook his head and balled up his fists, looking even more childish despite his attempts otherwise. "No! What about Dad? What if he comes back?"

"Tyar-"

"We can't leave-"

"Tyar!" Cirak snapped, wrenching the blaster from his hands. Tyar's eyes went large as his protests faded. A puzzling calm settled in the space between them, paradoxical to the chaos outside, and in that final isolation Cirak knew Tyar understood.

"Grab onto my shoulders and don't let go no matter what, you hear? No matter what." Cirak bent down and hoisted his little brother onto his back. Mercifully Tyar complied without further objection, and he fell totally silent all save for his muffled sobs.

Cirak glanced down at the hold-out blaster again and raised it at the wall. It was real this time, not just target practice. He began his approach slowly, creeping up to the right side of the door. The blasts were falling quieter. Time slipped away faster with each waiting breath. Cirak felt his heart pounding in his throat as though it were trying to rip itself out. Heat and tears blurred his vision. Terror constricted his every muscle and screamed at him to not run, that leaving the apartment would get them killed in the crossfire.

Yet there were no other options. Kihts always get by. He took one final deep breath…

Cirak wheeled around the corner, tearing down the hallway as fast as his legs would carry him. It was a straight shot to the exit, the door being at the end only a few dozen meters away. Tyar weighed him down, slowed him. It didn't matter. He still ran.

Someone was already in the hall. Cirak scanned him over quickly. A rodian wearing a dirty green jacket leaned against the wall, blaster at his side, likely a lookout. His fingers flicked impatiently over his holster, and he looked down the length of the hall expectantly. The rodian noticed Cirak just as he'd finished looking over the gangster. "Chuba!" he yelled in Huttese, reaching for his weapon.

But Cirak aimed his sooner, discharging a shot before the gangster could even raise it from his holster. The bolt struck him in the stomach, and he doubled over with a grunt. His body hadn't even fallen over entirely before Cirak shoved his way past him and through the exit door. Over his shoulder Cirak heard yelling, both in surprise and anger, but he couldn't make out the words. It didn't matter what they said anyways.

The roars of speeder motors greeted him as he stepped out into the open night air into the familiar chaos that was Nar Shaddaa. In their eagerness the gangsters had left their airspeeders running, either thinking that they'd be out quickly enough that they need not bother shutting down the engines, or that no one would be stupid enough to try and steal them.

Spotting a violet two-seated convertible parked towards the edge of the terrace, Cirak ran to its passenger side and lifted Tyar into the seat before sliding over the hood back to his own. "Strap in," he added, though Tyar had already done so. He ran his hands over the control wheel, letting himself steal a moment of enjoyment over his first solo ride, even if it was poisoned by circumstance, then flicked the repulsor to life. With a violent jolt the machine rose off the ground.

The airspeeder's hood suddenly sparked as a projectile glanced off the metal. Behind them more of the gang emerged from the apartment complex, blasters in hand and firing liberally.

"Tyar get down!" Cirak barked. His little brother ducked, shielding the back of his head with his hands. Cirak turned around in his seat and began firing wildly. Crimson bolts shot out in every direction, but none found their mark. Then, to his horror, their father's blaster gave a defeated click.

"You remember how to reload right?" Cirak said, tossing it into Tyar's lap. "I need you to do that while I drive."

But Tyar wasn't listening. He'd pulled his legs up against his chest, huddling himself close to them while muttering quietly, his words drowned out in the discord around them. His eyes met Cirak's for a brief moment, and he could see the whirlwind of emotions spinning within their red. Terror, confusion, pain…

Rage.

Tyar suddenly stood up in his seat. Cirak fumbled at his brother's sleeve, trying to pull him back down where he'd be safe, but the child seemed suddenly filled with an indomitable strength, and he shrugged off Cirak's grasp with ease.

"LEAVE US ALONE!"

Energy boomed from Tyar's hands, a force so powerful that Cirak was thrown back in his seat. The repulsor suddenly shut off, and they slammed back into the ground. They skidded back, spinning madly while metal screeched as the speeder lurched towards the terrace's edge where it came to a stop. Their vehicle teetered precariously, their backs to the traffic roaring above and below them in Nar Shaddaa's endless dark. Ahead the gangsters seemed to have stumbled as though shoved by an invisible figure, some even having been knocked prone. The shooting had all but ceased.

Cirak stared down at his brother, barely aware that his mouth was hanging agape. "Tyar? What did-"

Sudden pain flared along the left side of his ribcage, and Cirak cried out. The smell of charred flesh filled his nose as he heard the sizzling from where the bolt had struck him. His arm went numb, replaced instead by the searing pain. One of the gang members had risen again – or maybe he had just avoided falling in the first place – and resumed his attack. More bolts glanced off the metal, while others seemed to just barely miss them altogether.

Lightheaded and feeling his vision going, Cirak fumbled with the repulsor switch again, flicking it from off to on again. The machine failed to rise, grounded, dead. "Come on," Cirak groaned, trying the switch repeatedly. "Come on, come on…" He bared his fangs and slammed his fist down. "Blast it come on!"

The repulsor sparked to life with a hum, and the speeder lurched up from off the ground. Cirak wheeled them back around, now facing towards the traffic lanes, and then accelerated them into the open air. A few more shots of blaster fire followed them, but then it ceased. The chaos was now behind them, replaced by the ambience of their speeder's rumbling motor distant in the back of his mind.

Cirak's hands shook as he tried to balance the control wheel, the pain in his side now unbearable. His eyes drooped. The calm blue and red lights on the speeder's dash blurred together, none of its text discernable anymore. Cirak inhaled, acutely aware of how shallow his breathing felt. Stay awake, he told himself, Just 'til we land somewhere safe. Stay awake…stay…

He slumped forward into the control wheel, pitching the speeder downwards with a sudden kick. Tyar screamed beside him as the force pushed him back against his seat. The last thing Cirak felt was the rush of wind as their speeder careened downwards into the abyss. Then all went dark.


	2. Greylam Cormat

There is no emotion; there is peace.

The child exhaled, his eyes lightly sealed shut as he focused on becoming completely attuned with his surroundings. Near from the bench on which he sat cross-legged a stream flowed through the meditation gardens within the Jedi Temple. Fish swam through the gentle currents, and Greylam could feel them through the Force, tranquil within the clean waters. The air felt cooler in here, more so than in any other place within the temple. It was a paradise unto itself.

There is no ignorance; there is knowledge.

The gardens had been in the Jedi Temple on Coruscant for centuries, built by masters far older and far wiser than he could ever hope to aspire to. Countless Jedi had meditated among the foliage before him, and traces of their presence still lingered along the stone pathways, within the sand and against the bark of twisted trees. There was history in this place, not one of glory and Republic triumph, but one of seclusion and wisdom.

It was where he usually spent his mornings, before most other Jedi or initiates woke. Sometimes he'd take a holopad with him and read beside a nearby brook; this particular dawn he'd brought an archeology datapad for study, even though he hadn't gotten around to actually reading it. He preferred to meditate in solitude. He'd have plenty of time for study later. Greater truths were found in quiet contemplation.

There is no passion; there is serenity.

Calm, completely calm. Greylam inhaled through his nose and let the feeling wash over him.

There is no death; there is the Force.

It was the binding constant that held the galaxy together. All beings were tied to the Force, and became one with it upon death. One day, he would as well. Everything would. It was nothing to fear, as so many thought. There was no greater peace.

Greylam opened his eyes and looked skyward. Through the windows overhead he saw Coruscant slowly brighten as dawn arrived, the golden gleam of sunlight igniting the sky with an orange-tinted hue. Morning would herald more instruction, more opportunities to learn the ways of the Force from his teachers.

He uncrossed his legs and started to rise. A pair of birds not far from where he sat fluttered away at his movement, vanishing into the ferns. It was a shame to have to leave: the gardens truly held so much life. The Force was in true splendor here, and Greylam could feel the ways in which it all connected the beings within it. Here, more than anywhere, he felt peace.

Perhaps it was because of where he was from, Alderaan, considering its reputation for possessing beautiful flora and fauna. At one point an instructor of his had told him that his eyes were the same color as that of Alderaan's lakes, supposedly beautiful during the summers. He wasn't sure, though, and in fact he could not even recall what Alderaan looked like from personal experience. As with all Force-sensitive children, Greylam had been adopted into the Jedi Order before he could develop any attachments to his parents or any other potential loved ones. At seven years old – only five years since the Order brought him in – he couldn't remember the sound of their voices or any other notable features about them.

Greylam knew well enough that a child outside the Jedi would've felt saddened by that fact. He didn't. It was better this way after all. Attachments led only to emotion, and such emotions could lead down the path to the dark were they to become volatile enough. One's mind must be clear and vigilant, lest it give way to temptation.

Pulling gently through the Force, Greylam brought his boots to his feet and guided them on to his feet. He had already dressed himself in the standard beige garb of a Jedi Initiate, similar to the ones full-fledged Jedi wore under normal circumstances. It was better than having to return to his dormitory to change out of pajamas in order to start his day.

No sooner had he placed them back on did he feel a ripple through the gardens as someone entered the space. Far away he could hear the door open and close, followed by steps that came towards him. Greylam reached out through the empty space with his mind, letting himself feel the new presence, finding it familiar.

By the time Instructor Rel had turned the corner Greylam had already risen, waiting for him attentively. Greylam gave him a polite bow. "Good morning Master Paddoq."

A faint smile crept onto the old man's worn and weathered face. His dark brown skin bore the scars of many battles long past from his days as a Jedi Knight, and his beard had greyed over time. It was a deceptively intimidating look, but the man was nothing but kind to all others. He was a figure present throughout all of Greylam's life, his presence preceding Greylam's own memory.

Rel Paddoq's chestnut-colored eyes studied Greylam for a moment. "I had a feeling I'd find you here," he said, his voice deep and crackling like embers on a hearth, "Why aren't you asleep little youngling? It's still early yet, and you should be getting what rest you can."

"I just wanted some time to meditate before I started my day."

"Most children your age don't approach meditation with quite as much eagerness as you do Greylam. I'm usually hearing how much they want to build a lightsaber or learn sparring."

"I'll learn to fight when it's decided that I'm ready. Fighting should only be used as a last resort, not while striving for glory. Many children don't understand that."

He paused, and Greylam couldn't tell if his response had troubled the instructor. "That being said I'm happy to see that you understand its importance. You have a natural connection to the Force."

"You humble me Master."

There was another gap of silence between them. Then Instructor Rel ruffled Greylam's short ashen hair, gave a gentle wave of his hand, and turned to leave the gardens. "Allow me to walk you to the refectory. I'm sure that you'll want something to eat before your instructions become underway."

Now that he had mentioned it, Greylam noticed his own hunger, a sensation he'd managed to dull during his meditations. He followed close beside Instructor Rel, but kept his focus ahead. Rel was considerably taller than him – taller than most others as well – and Greylam knew it would be hard to stray from the giant man's side. Becoming a Jedi Shadow was likely out of the question even in his younger years.

Rel lead Greylam out of the meditation gardens to a hallway that led to the atrium of the ziggurat. Red carpets with golden embroidery lined the marble flooring, stretching wide across the interior. By now the Jedi Temple was awakening; the clear sky outside allowed the sun a particular shine that slipped through the windows on the far side of the mezzanine across from them. When Greylam had left for his meditations, the chamber had been empty save for the usual temple guardsman. They were not far from the dormitories, and he knew that other parts of the temple likely weren't as populated in the morning hour.

"Tell me Greylam," Instructor Rel said suddenly, "Are there any other younglings at the temple that you would consider your friend?"

Greylam cocked his head at the instructor's question. "Friends?"

"I ask only because you seem more solitary than the other initiates here. You are often sitting or eating alone when you're not meditating. Believe me, you're excelling at your classes, but you have trouble communicating."

"Forgive me Master, but I don't wholly see the relevance," Greylam started, "Our purpose here is to learn the ways of the Force and the teachings of the Jedi. Isn't that what I've been doing?"

Instructor Rel nodded, though his eyes remained grave. "You've become quite familiar with texts and philosophers key to our order that is true. I have little doubt of your intellectual capacities, but there is more to being a Jedi than our philosophies. A true Jedi must know how to communicate with others, know how to deescalate situations before the need for fighting ever emerges. It is the application of our philosophies that is important, not just the words themselves. Flowers do not grow from the concept of rain alone.

"And it is there where I have concern for you, Greylam. While you have a great understanding of the Force at such a young age, I fear that you have little talent for communication. For example, what if, one day when you're a Jedi Knight, you have a padawan who expresses confusion over one of the Order's teachings? What would you tell them?"

"I would explain it to them again until they can remember it."

"Ah, you misunderstand me. This hypothetical protégé of yours knows what this teaching says, but fiercely disagrees with it. How would you go proceed?"

Greylam raised a perplexed eyebrow. His teacher's line of questioning seemed odd, as did their whole conversation. "B-but why wouldn't they? The teachings are straightforward. There isn't much room for any confusion of that sort."

"And yet some still fall to the dark, even great Jedi once known for compassion and mercy." Rel turned towards a nearby balcony and gestured for Greylam to join him. Down below the atrium teemed with life, and he felt the Force alive and connecting them all. "It is not impossible to think that we may have a future Sith down there," Rel continued, "Those not trained to calm their emotions will give in to them if they are not careful. But it's nothing to fear, not if you can help others through their pain.

"Your mind is like a still pond Greylam: placid. Not everyone's is. I want you to reach out, feel the emotions of those around you."

Greylam did as he was instructed, closing his eyes as he went to touch the minds of the other students and Jedi. Many were neutral, as he would've expected, but he sensed other things as well: joy, excitement, hope. They were those who were truly happy to be on Coruscant, possibly new arrivals. Greylam felt one presence in the crowd though, one whose feeling seemed muted, intentionally so, as though he was restraining his mind from broaching the subjects it was subtly cognitive of. He reached further, parsing through the student's different emotions, deeper towards the ones he kept at the back of his mind. Jealousy. Envy towards his companions and their superior skills, frustration towards their mentors for feeling held back in his lessons. Greylam released himself from the student's thoughts and opened his eyes.

"What did you feel?" Rel asked.

"Tumult. To continue with your water analogy, it was as though a turbulent river," Greylam replied. Pain ebbed at the sides of his forehead as he furrowed his eyebrows. "I don't understand Master. Why would he feel anger in not being at the same place as his peers? Isn't it more important that he learns as opposed to the speed at which he learns it?"

"Many people don't think like that. Too many are blinded by ambition, and we live in a great big galaxy where many place their ambition paramount to everything else." After another pause Instructor Rel continued, "What would you say to that student, if you could sense his disturbances through the Force?"

Greylam shrugged. The teachings were clear, with no room for doubt. The student should know better than to ruminate on frustrations beyond their control. It was the way of the Sith to believe in such foolhardy ambition, to seek to dominate the Force's will. Peace, within and without, came from acknowledging the simple fact that one cannot. It was baffling that the student in question couldn't understand that lesson; it was such a simple one.

"I can sense your confusion Greylam. The fact that you cannot think up an answer is the source of my concern in the first place." Rel did not sound upset with him, and his tone remained even. "Your words can be more powerful than any lightsaber if you allow the Force to move through them and ease the pain of others. We have an incredible gift, being able to sense what most can only guess at. Being a Jedi is just as much about compassion as it is keeping peace in the Republic and galaxy at large. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

"I…I think so," Greylam said tentatively, still thinking on the instructor's words. He felt a twinge of guilt, regret that he'd failed his master before he'd ever even known of the lesson. Greylam then cringed, realizing that he was letting his own emotions get the better of him.

"Breathe," Rel said suddenly, "I can feel your distress it is not wrong to have emotions, only to let yourself feed on their darker impulses. Now, I want to teach you an exercise that was taught to me when I was young. Close your eyes again."

"Okay," Greylam said, complying with Rel's command.

"Imagine that you are carrying the entire weight of your anxiety in your arms. It's heavy, and you strain as you try to carry it. Most cannot carry such a burden. Now picture your fears, your anger, your sadness, all of it shrinking in front of you until it's nothing more than a smooth grey pebble in the palm of your hand. Anyone can handle a pebble."

Greylam conjured the image in his mind, seeing himself with a massive boulder as Rel had stated. Then, bit by bit, it seemed as though the wind whittled shavings off the large rock, breaking it down until it was an ovular grey shape that reflected the sunlight around them. In his mind Greylam saw himself tilt his palm to the side, allowing the pebble to fall from his hand. When it hit the ground, the floor seemed to ripple as though water, and Greylam opened his eyes. To his surprise he felt lighter than before, and his distress – however minor – was gone.

"Thank you Master," Greylam said with a dutiful bow, "And forgive me for letting my anxiousness cloud my thoughts. It was unbecoming of me as your pupil."

"There's nothing to forgive little one."

"Master," Greylam continued, meeting Rel's eyes with renewed confidence, "How might I seek to better myself in conversation?"

"As I said before, make friends, talk to people," Rel said, "Granted I'm not saying to go as far as leaving the academy and work on becoming a senator or anything." He cracked a dry smile. "We have too many politicians as is if you ask me. It's going to be the downfall of the Republic. But in all seriousness, I want you to reach out to some of the other initiates here. I sense the potential within you to become a great Jedi, one who could leave a great impact on the Order.

"We have a number of Jedi out right now searching for potential recruits across the galaxy. The war with the Sith is steadily taking a toll on us, and we'll need more Jedi once it's over to maintain the Order's role as peacekeepers of Republic. Most of the new initiates they find will be close to your age. Befriend them. Help them as they grow into the next generation of Jedi. I sense within you someone who is worth following."

Greylam nodded. "I'll try."

"No."

"What?"

"Either succeed, or fail. Allow the Force to guide you, but in the end, you will either succeed or fail. There is no trying," Rel said, "A saying I heard once, or at least something to that effect. Do not fear what may pass, but approach every challenge with all that you have."

"You'll help me, right?"

Rel closed his eyes and shook his head. "Unfortunately this is something you must brave on your own. In three days' time I will be traveling to rendezvous with other Jedi at Ord Radama. There's been some Republic intelligence that suggests the Sith are going to make an attempt at reclaiming it, and I've been asked to assist some of the preparation for its defense. I'll be gone for a little while."

"Oh." The thought of his instructor heading into a warzone filled Greylam with unease, but then he focused on the exercise Rel had just taught him. A pebble in his hand. That's all his concern needed to be. Anyone could handle a pebble. It was light, and he could let it go without difficulty. "How fares the war? Will the hostilities persist much longer?"

A smile cracked at the edges of Rel's mouth. "That's not something a child such as yourself should have any concern about." Rel waved him along, and Greylam matched him stride. "I've talked your ear off long enough. You've more than earned something to eat."

They walked in amiable silence through the Jedi Temple's halls towards the refectory, during which Greylam reflected on the initial question Rel had poised to him. It was true that he lacked close peers whom he considered his friend, but he wasn't friendless. The notion made him smile, and for Rel he would try harder. As they ate breakfast Greylam spoke of the things he'd learned in various codex entries: history, geology, engineering, and so forth, all while Rel listened in sage silence.

It wasn't until months later that he understood the importance of that final lesson, and that Rel probably knew it was the last time Greylam would ever see him alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try to avoid doing to many author's notes, but I just wanted to take a second to thank everyone who's been reading. We've got one more character introduction before things get really underway, so I apologize if the fic seems meandering right now. I've also got a tumblr that I've uploaded these to as well under the same username. I hope everyone's been enjoying the read so far :)


	3. Eonur Bogra

The guards were always the same, regardless of the planet or owner or banner. Their eyes had been trained to watch for any signs of insubordination, and their hands equally taught to linger above whatever weapon their employer had deemed appropriate. Electroshock collars were the most common, followed only by equally painful batons. After all, any permanent damage to the goods would be detrimental for business, a waste of credits. Eonur had only felt their sting once after he’d resisted their pull as he was separated from his mother, having been sold to a new owner. The overseer in question hadn’t even hesitated.   
The only thing that ever changed was the colors and emblems they associated with themselves. It hadn’t taken him long to differentiate the insignias of the Hutts or anyone else who dealt and purchased slaves. The variety of masters in his life had taught him their superficial differences.  
At least, that’s what Eonur had thought; standing under the crimson and black Imperial flags was another story altogether. He’d been traded around by slavers before, and he’d known them all to put on the most intimidating posturing they were able, but with the Imperials it didn’t feel like they were posturing. Lines of soldiers guarded the ship, their faces hidden behind emotionless black visors that reflected the visages of the slaves back upon themselves. Each one held a rifle drawn across their chest, ready to fire at the slightest provocation. His three other slave tradings over the past eight years of his life had been underlined with an air of greed and tense perverted excitement from the prospective buyers, as though he and the other slaves were new ships for purchase. Here, the Imperials only exuded coldness.  
He’d been lined up alongside his fellow slaves - most of whom were older than himself – inside the hanger bay of some Imperial ship while officers observed the new purchases. His former master had already departed the corvette some time ago, his deal complete and the appropriate credits now in his possession. Eonur didn’t understand why the Imperials waited before cramming them into a shuttle, but that confusion was tempered with relief. It was a rare occasion that they had open space without the expectation of strenuous work.  
Eonur gently tugged at his collar as the metal pinched at his skin, but found little relief and subsequently gave up. If he pulled too harshly an overseer might think he was trying to remove it altogether. A shock would usually follow in that case, and an imperial would salivate at the chance to inflict pain on an alien such as himself, even if iridonians weren’t considered brutish like some other species. On one occasion he’d seen a fellow slave shot over it, and though he doubted that his owners would risk angering the Imperials by harming their stock.  
“Just leave it be,” Jowporin said lowly in Shyriiwook. A cluster of Imperial soldiers turned their head at the sound, but made no further moves. To them Shryriiwook was just feral growling from a barely-sentient beast. Even they knew that shocking Jowporin would likely just make him angry, and the last thing they wanted was an enraged seven foot tall mass of black fur barreling towards them.  
Eonur grumbled quietly to himself as he resisted scratching at the pinch. “It’s itchy,” he mumbled back, but made no further protestations. Jowporin was right; he often was. The older wookiee was the closest thing he had to a friend despite their pronounced differences in age. They’d been bought and sold in the same cluster of slaves for their past two owners, back when Eonur’s only use for his masters was for fixing faulty wiring in small machines. During one of the repairs Eonur had dropped a wrench onto the foot of another slave, who then proceeded to beat him with the same tool. Jowporin broke the man’s spine in response.  
He’d been looking out for Eonur ever since.  
In the years that had followed Jowporin imparted what wisdom he’d acquired from his long tenure as a slave. Don’t question the master or his overseers aloud, but never stop questioning them within. Work competently, but not too quickly as to not earn the ire of other slaves. And, most of all, not to lose his identity in the wake of everything. The last had always seemed the most important to Jowporin, though Eonur couldn’t quite understand why.   
“Where do you think we’re going?” Eonur asked, nodding towards the shuttles ahead of them. There were few military strike crafts in the hanger bay, and most of the ship designs appeared better fit for transportation than combat. Even the number of soldiers manning the cruiser seemed less than what he’d been expecting from what little he knew of the Empire. Weren’t they supposed to be at war or something?  
“I don’t know, but we’ll find out soon,” Jowporin replied, “It doesn’t do us much good to speculate though. Just stand tall and don’t draw attention to yourself, like all the other times.”  
Eonur glanced between Jowporin and the massive trandoshan to his left. “Easier said than done.”  
A hush fell over the assembly of slaves as a thin figure approached them in long strides, his violet robes rippling like a spring in his wake. He was alien – the only non-slave alien Eonur had seen among the Imperial’s ranks – though his appearance was unlike any other alien he’d seen in his life. Smooth crimson skin accentuated the man’s angular features, stretching perfectly over ridges along his eyebrows and chin. An air of smugness followed him, not unlike his human compatriots, but far more intense and certain. The other Imperials seemed to cower in his presence as though he exuded fear itself. Eonur himself felt a wave of dread as the man stopped at the front of the rows of slaves; even then he could not stop peering through the slaves ahead of him at the enigmatic figure.   
The figure unfolded his gloved hands in a benign welcoming that bordered on friendly. “I, Lord Rhoral, congratulate all you assembled here, for you have been selected for the glorious purpose of serving the Sith Empire in battle against the Republic. No more will you have to fritter about with menial tasks fit for a droid, for you have ascended to projects far greater than those assigned by your previous masters. Leave all memories of your pitiful pasts behind; they will serve you no longer in your service to the Empire.  
“In three days’ time we will arrive at the planet of Ord Radama, where we are preparing for a siege on the planet led by Darth Malgus himself. You yourselves will take part in this battle, to our benefit.” A bemused, cruel smile crossed his lips. “Your... efforts will pave the way for our loyal sons and daughters to claim victory over the Jedi fools holding the planet.”  
Behind him, Eonur heard a slave mutter, “What does that mean?”  
“We’re being sent to our deaths,” another replied, panic evident in slightly raised voice, “They’re going to use us as cannon fodder. We’re dead. We’re dead.”  
Lord Rhoral’s head snapped towards them with the alarming speed of a deadly predator. He took several silent strides towards them as the two slaves fell silent in feigned innocence. To Eonur’s surprise Lord Rhoral’s expression remained placid. While it was far from neutral or apathetic, there was a temperance about it that was unlike any master of his in the past. They would have already been spewing spittle in their orders for fresh lashings.  
Then Lord Rhoral’s expression changed, slowly morphing into intrigued perplexity as his eyes instead locked upon Eonur himself. The Sith Lord’s gait slowed, and he shifted his posture to more directly approach him. Eonur tensed. Terror wrapped around his innards, and he felt as though his fear would choke the life out of him before this Imperial could have the chance. Beside him Jowporin grew rigid, glancing frantically between Eonur and Lord Rhoral in helpless fear.  
Eonur closed his eyes at Lord Rhoral’s approach, too afraid to open them lest the unknown punishment follow. From what little he knew of the Sith they were not unopposed to inflicting senseless pain onto their victims in the hopes of instilling fear among those meant to serve them. But even in the darkness he could not hide, and Eonur forced his eyes open, finding Lord Rhoral’s gaunt frame standing over him. Two gloved hands gripped his chin, just under his shock collar, and tilted Eonur’s gaze to match the Sith’s.  
“Fascinating; it resonates so strongly within you despite its dormancy, locked away as much as you are,” Lord Rhoral breathed, allowing his fingers to slide along the collar’s length with gravity’s natural pull. Eonur struggled against his body’s desire to recoil, too fearful of what would happen if he did so. Even then a flicker of amusement crossed Lord Rhoral’s thin lips as though he could sense the very fear that sent Eonur’s heart racing. “You’ve never seen my kind before, have you?” he asked firmly.  
Eonur shook his head, averting his eyes away from Lord Rhoral’s unsettling amber irises.  
“I am Sith, but not as you might recognize. That name was bestowed upon an Empire that is but a shadow of what we once were, what we hope to restore. No, I am pure-” Lord Rhoral lifted Eonur’s chin once more, “-of blood. The Force runs through my very essence, untamed, unmeasured. My power is beyond compare of anyone else in this room. And want to know something child?” Eonur remained frozen, unsure if Lord Rhoral actually wished for him to respond. “Power. Recognizes. Power. The Force calls out to me from you. Can you feel it as well?”  
Somehow, beyond all explanation, Eonur did feel some invisible tie to Lord Rhoral, as though he could sense a presence of his that transcended sight or touch. It was faint, but present. Strangest of all, though, was that the feeling wasn’t entirely new. A part of it, however small, felt familiar to Eonur, even close to his own heart. With even more attention Eonur’s awareness extended beyond the Sith Lord, but to Jowporin as well, his friend’s anxiety resonating as though his own. Eonur returned a cautious nod to Lord Rhoral.  
“Commander, unshackle this iridonian here,” Lord Rhoral ordered, waving over a black and grey garbed Imperial. The officer – a brawny, pale-skinned human - jolted out of an apparent daze and hurried over while adjusting the cap upon his head.   
“Milord, you shouldn’t bother with this alien filth. My men and I-” The Imperial stopped midsentence as Lord Rhoral extended his hand towards him. His eyes went wide with shock. His hands clawed at his throat, and he fell to his knees whilst gagging, as though he were choking on air itself. A sickly blue climbed his veins to his face, and his eyes bulged as the blood vessels within them started to burst.  
All the while Lord Rhoral clicked his tongue. “Commander, I didn’t ask for your opinion. Now should we try again, or shall your subordinate take over from here? I’d think about your answer very, very carefully.” He glanced at Eonur from over his shoulder. “Sometimes you have to make points like this. Quite bothersome. What would you do with him?”  
Eonur flicked his eyes between Lord Rhoral and the Imperial. What would he do? No one had ever asked him for his opinion on a matter, much less for his advice. He watched as the Imperial commander crawled along the floor as he fought for air. The pain looked unimaginable. Maybe if it were one of his old master’s the pain would be deserved, but Eonur knew nothing of this man. “Give him another chance,” Eonur said.  
Lord Rhoral lowered his hand, and immediately the Imperial began gasping for air. “What are you waiting for?” he barked at a nearby soldier, “Get the damn key and unlock that boy’s collar!”  
A black-helmed soldier rushed over to where Eonur stood and unlocked his collar with trembling hands before retreating as fast as he’d arrived. Just like that his bindings were undone, and for the first time in his life he stood without a slave’s denotation around his neck. Eonur rubbed at the skin along his throat. Relief overwhelmed him, as well as tremendous gratitude, and he fought back tears.  
The awareness Lord Rhoral had brought him – this Force, as he called it – resonated even stronger within Eonur than before, filling his very being tenfold. It was a sensation as though he’d only ever experienced a light breeze in his lifetime, only to be now caught up in a windstorm. “The Force shall free me,” Lord Rhoral whispered, “I sense a great destiny in store for you, my apprentice.”  
Before he could express his thanks, Lord Rhoral continued. “I am your master now, and you answer to none but me. Do you understand?”  
“Y-yes.”  
“Good,” Lord Rhoral said, “Now separate yourself from this… lowly ilk and-”  
“Master, can my friend go too?” Eonur said, looking to Jowporin. “He’s-”  
Eonur cried out in pain, doubling over as a burst of silver-blue lightning emanated from Lord Rhoral’s fingertips and wracked his body. He wrapped his arms around his chest as he’d been taught to weather the pain; however brief, it was far worse than any of the shocks he’d grown accustomed to over the years. All the other slaves’ eyes were on him, and Eonur could sense their fear. More than that, he could feel Jowporin’s rage precariously teetering on the edge of being beyond control.  
“Do not presume to think you can speak out of turn, or that you regard me as owing you anything. You follow my prerogative, not your own. In fact, for even so much as raising the question…” Lord Rhoral reached to his side, where he then extracted a cylindrical piece of metal resembling a baton, only thicker. He flicked a switch, and a brilliant scarlet beam came to life at its end with a fleeting screech, and it hummed as he held it there. Eonur could feel the power radiating from the blade.   
Lord Rhoral extended the hilt to Eonur, and he took it with both hands. The weapon felt lighter than it looked, and he held it with ease. The Sith cocked his head towards Jowporin. “Strike him down.”  
Eonur’s eyes went wide as horror seized him. “What? I can’t do that! He’s my friend. I can’t do that!”  
A flash of anger materialized in Lord Rhoral’s amber eyes. “Either you strike him down, or I will order my men to re-collar you and put you on the front lines for this siege, beaten and starved-”  
“Please!”  
“Power or death! It’s your decision!” Lord Rhoral barked. He began pacing. “Do not test my patience!”  
Tears streamed down Eonur’s cheeks as he recited hollow pleas. Through stinging eyes he looked upon Jowporin’s now calm face, who then nodded, encouraging as always. It wasn’t fair. It was wrong. It couldn’t be happening. All the gratitude he’d felt towards Lord Rhoral had vanished, replaced with seething hatred. Eonur’s hands shook, and he raised the blade above his head…  
And swung it at Lord Rhoral.  
In a single, deft movement Lord Rhoral twirled around Eonur’s clumsy strike as the blade hummed through the air, knocked the hilt free from his hands, and pinned him underfoot. Ghastly laughter rang out in the hanger. The Sith Lord smiled down at him, twisted mirth filling his expression. “Well attempted apprentice! Your hatred shines like a beacon! Feel it! Embrace it! We’ll make a Sith of you yet!”  
Then, suddenly, sirens deafened the bay as red lights began flashing from the walls and ceiling. The troops assembled began moving while their commanders barked orders, some heading for the fighters docked not far away. Lord Rhoral looked up, confused, and scrambled for his holocomm. A scrambled blue figure appeared on its base, and Eonur recognized from their uniform as another Imperial. “What’s happening?” Lord Rhoral barked at the woman.  
“It’s the Republic milord. They’ve ambushed us.”  
Lord Rhoral pocketed his holocomm and lifted his foot off from Eonur’s chest. “Blast,” he muttered, turning to the vastness of space at the far end of the hanger bay, “Always looking to interrupt my fun, aren’t you? No matter…” He turned back to Eonur. “I’m afraid I’ll have to cut this demonstration short my young apprentice. We have more pressing things to attend to.”   
The Sith Lord bent down and extended his hand. Eonur stared, cautious. As much anger as he still felt towards him, he feared upsetting him further. There was no room for bargaining. He was just as trapped as he’d ever been. Reluctantly, Eonur took him in his grip and allowed himself to be hoisted up. “Please” was the only word he could muster.  
“Fear not apprentice, we’ll wait somewhere safe while our troops crush the Republic. Come with me.” Lord Rhoral took a few steps, and then stopped. “Oh, I almost forgot.”  
The blade sparked to life again. Lord Rhoral lunged and with a single, deadly motion, stabbed Jowporin in the chest. The wookiee crumpled without a sound. Just fell. Like that the presence Eonur had felt in his friend vanished, smothered out. A scream tore its way from Eonur’s mouth, but he couldn’t hear it. All he could feel was the violence scraping at his throat, a sound that could barely match his horror.  
Lord Rhoral then seized Eonur by the scalp and began dragging him away. “Order troops to guard them,” he said to a nearby Imperial while gesturing to the slaves, “If the Republic dogs board our ship, kill the slaves first.” Without another word he whisked Eonur away, leading him down hallway after hallway until they reached a corridor towards the back of the ship. A pair of soldiers saluted as they entered the room before entering codes into a panel by the entrance. Massive security doors folded down onto each other, sealing Eonur behind the defenses with a Sith Lord.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've been enjoying this fic, following me on greencrusader13.tumblr.com! I occasionally post things about the characters, and I'd be happy to answer any and all questions you guys have!


	4. A Landing of Sorts

            Everything of Tyar’s hurt. As consciousness gradually returned to him, the pain was the first to reach his thoughts. He pushed himself to his knees and blinked away the black, letting his vision focus on the rubble beneath him. Tyar coughed, wincing at the tightness deep within his chest. He began to cry. His arm hurt and bled from scraping along the concrete, and home was gone. Dad was gone too, probably.

Through his tears he began taking in his surroundings. They seemed to have crashed in some sort of derelict storefront; empty shelves lined the walls, some even turned over, and a fair amount of litter and dust had settled on the floor over an unknown amount of time. In his hands he still held the control wheel, which he’d seized from Cirak after his big brother had fallen unconscious. From the looks of it, he’d at least piloted the speeder to a landing, albeit a rough one.

            Tyar gasped as recollected Cirak’s injury and subsequent fainting. He called out for his brother as he spun wildly, but his voice only came out in a hoarse croak. The speeder lay several feet behind him, half-encased in fallen debris and severely damaged, but Cirak still sat in the driver’s seat, slumped over. Tyar scrambled over the wreckage, ignoring the stinging in his palms as he pressed himself to his feet, and limped to the speeder. Loose metal creaked under Tyar’s weight, a testament to the damage the vehicle had sustained.

            Cirak did not wake at Tyar’s approach. He didn’t even move. “Cee?” Tyar looked over his brother, at all the cuts and pains he’d endured in getting them out. He looked like a broken toy. Cirak’s chest rose and fell in slow shallow breaths that barely even seemed to escape his mouth. A swell of terror formed in Tyar’s stomach, and he began shaking him. “Cee…please,” he whimpered, “Don’t leave me alone. Cee…Ce-cee pl-pl-p...” Sudden wailing stifled the words in his throat, and he pressed his face to Cirak’s breast as a shield against the overwhelming horror.

            The dull, faint _thum_ beat harder against Tyar’s ear.

            “Cee!”

            Cirak Kiht stirred, wheezing, and his eyes jolted wide with sudden consciousness before falling slack. He gasped, hand grasping at his side, and for the first time Tyar noticed a sharp piece of fragmented metal pierced between his lower ribs. Cirak ran his palm over it before falling back against his seat again, his hand coated in red. Wetness misted over Cirak’s eyes, and his gasping increased to a faster rhythm. Fear strangled the air around them.

            “You’re hurt,” Tyar said, looking him over.

            “Yeah kid.”

            “I-I’ll go get help. There’s gotta be someone around here who-”

            But Cirak didn’t appear as though he’d heard. His eyes had narrowed into red lines filled with determination that fought back the agony clearly wracking his body. With gentle pats Cirak began to frisk himself, eventually settling on a cartridge within his jacket pocket, which he then produced. “Tyar, do you still have Dad’s blaster?”

            Tyar looked around the seats, eventually spying the weapon lying on the passenger seat floor. He turned it over to Cirak, who took it from his grasp with surprising force. Teeth gritted, Cirak proceeded to remove the emptied clip and reloaded with shaking hands. He then handed the blaster back to Tyar. Cirak’s bloodied handprint stained the grip.

            “Go.”

            Tyar pressed the blaster against his chest. “What?”

            “Go,” Cirak repeated with a dismissive, exhausted wave, “Get out of here. Find somewhere safe. I’m really hurt and I-” he grimaced and fought back a choked sob, looking skyward “-I don’t know if I’m going to be okay or not. I can’t put you in-”

            “No!”

            “I can’t put you in danger!” Cirak snapped hoarsely, “We don’t know if those guys are going to come looking for their speeder or not, and I can’t let anything bad happen to you by slowing you down. Not to mention anyone else who might see us as easy prey for a mugging. You can hide better. Dad wouldn’t me to endanger you. _I_ don’t want that.”

            “Cee…”

            “Tyar, just go. Find somewhere – _anywhere_ – safe.”

            Tyar brought himself to meet his brother’s gaze and found his eyes full of conviction. There would be no talking him out of staying, and he knew well enough that he lacked the strength to carry him against his will. Dragging him would only tire them both out, and in Cirak’s shape he wouldn’t last much longer if exerted.

And yet if Tyar abandoned him then the speeder would be his grave. There had to be someone around who could help.

“Okay, I’ll go,” Tyar lied, wiping tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand. “I’ll go f-fast. I’ll leave you.”

Cirak forced a teeth-clenched smile. “Good.” He grunted and clutched his side again. Blood still seeped through his fingers. “You’re going to be fine. Kihts always get by. We always get by.”

Dad’s old words brought up another lump in Tyar’s throat, which he fought back. “I love you Cee.”

“I know kid.”

Tyar wrapped his arms around Cirak’s neck and pressed his forehead to his throat, letting himself feel Cirak’s breathing in case he was to never feel it again. He felt Cirak wince, but in the moment he didn’t care. Dad hadn’t hugged them like it might be goodbye when he left, and now they’d never get the chance. On the chance that he didn’t return in time, Tyar couldn’t let their final minutes as brothers pass through his fingers.

After stepping away from the speeder, Tyar exited the alleyway they’d crashed into and looked towards the skyline. They were far from home  now, having landed in a part of the sprawling mega-city he’d never ventured into, let alone been allowed near. The tops of the skyscrapers were no longer even visible from the depths they’d reached, concaving into a shroud of dark that covered the entire undercity. Flickering lights guided his way down a street marred by indications of disrepair. Traffic had all but ceased, and Tyar couldn’t so much as hear the distant hum of vehicles that should’ve been flying overhead. Even the air felt still, stagnant even, full of foulness.

He approached the end of the street as the road curved rightward. Tyar neared the railing just before the turn and looked over its edge. Somehow they still weren’t even near the deepest parts of Nar Shaddaa. Barren dark met his gaze just as it always had, and for a moment he wondered if the moon even had a true surface or if it emptied into space itself. A knot formed in his stomach at the thought, and he stepped away, fearing that it would consume him if he stared for too long.

He passed through a corridor, and Tyar found himself in a dimly lit plaza of sorts. Merchants sat in corners, ready to peddle their wares upon anyone who came too close. Dad had warned him about them before. “They’re like predators with a nose for credits. Once they have you they won’t let go until they have what they want, and many won’t stop until you’re bled dry,” he’d said. Tyar doubted they’d bother a kid to quite the same extent, but even then…

But they were people, and the first ones he’d seen who weren’t shooting at him. More than that, they were Cirak’s only hope for survival.

Tyar slipped Cirak’s blaster into the back of his pants and stepped towards a pinkish-orange alien, whose three eyes all shifted to look at him upon his approach. He’d seen them around Nar Shaddaa frequently; they were Grans, or at least that’s what he thought they were called. The Gran stared down at him.

“My brother…uh…” Tyar switched between all three of the Gran’s eyes, unsure of which to focus on. “My-my brother needs help. He-”

The Gran cut him off with something unintelligible and folded his bloated arms across his chest.

“Um, I don’t know what you’re saying,” Tyar said, then darted off, leaving the Gran there shrugging.

Tyar felt a brief spark of panic in his heart as he regarded the area. There were few aliens in the plaza to begin with, the vast majority of them aliens. Who knew how many of them even spoke Galactic Basic or Huttese, and of the ones who did, would be willing to help him at all. Philanthropy was not a common pastime on Nar Shaddaa; even he knew that.

Several meters away he found a pair of rodian shopkeepers sitting on a green mat which was frayed at its edges. As Tyar started towards them his eyes caught a robed woman sitting against a near wall. Though her eyes were obscured by a deep umber hood, she seemed to regard him, and the brim of her hood followed his pace. Tyar slowed. There was something odd about her presence, a feeling he couldn’t quite place words on. Something familiar? A sense of unease filled him at her sight, and he once again turned to face the rodian merchants, this time moving quicker than before.

The rodians looked towards him as he drew closer, their inky eyes exchanging a quick glance as the one furthest to the back rose from a pile of assorted wares and scrapes. He then joined the first at his side. An astromech droid beeped beside the first rodian, its head rotating a full orbit before returning to wobbling back-and-forth. Tyar couldn’t help but grin at it, but his smile quickly faded as he found himself under the stares of the merchants.

“It’s a kid. Looks a little beat up,”

“Yeah I can see that.” The second turned to Tyar. “Looking to buy something kid? Parents give you credits?”

They both spoke Huttese, which was a small relief. Even though he didn’t speak it as well as Dad or Cirak, Tyar knew a little, and understood even more. “Brother… _big_ brother… is ouch. Need help. Fix.” Tyar gripped his own ribs, lurching over for added effect.

“I think he wants to buy a medpac.”

The second clapped the first on the back of the head. “I’m not deaf you idiot.” Back to Tyar, he added, “Medpacs are fifty credits. No refunds if it’s faulty.”

Tyar frowned. “No credits. I-”

“No credits, no business,” the second said, “Buzz off kid.”

“Yeah kid, buzz off.” The first’s chittering garnered a disapproving stare from his companion.

Tears returned to his eyes, beckoned by fear. “I need it!” Tyar wailed, starting for their supplies.

The second rodian placed a stiff hand on Tyar’s shoulder and shoved, sending him to the ground. Tyar landed hard on his back, and he gasped as the wind was knocked out of him. He coughed and then pushed himself upright. The rodians didn’t so much as even look at him anymore; he was now a non-entity in their minds, so long as they couldn’t get credits out of him.

Fury boiled within Tyar, one mixed with frustration and anguish. Finding a medpac for Cirak now felt like a secondary goal. In that instant – more than anything else – he wanted to hurt them for their selfishness. Tyar glowered at them and bared his fangs.

The rodian pair went rigid, their hands darting up to grasp at their thin necks in near-perfect synchronization. Frenzied choking escaped their mouths, but despite their struggles they could not find air. The invisible noose around their necks only seemed to grow tighter, and Tyar felt as though it were in his hands. He pulled it, willed it on. Their lives didn’t matter as much as Cirak’s, and they didn’t deserve theirs if Cirak couldn’t have his.

“That’s enough.”

The telepathic rope that had strangled the rodians seemed as though snapped, and the pair fell to their knees with hacking coughs. Tyar turned at the sound of the voice, finding the woman from before standing over him. For the first time he could see beneath her hood, as well as that she was human. Wrinkled skin highlighted the thinness of her face, the depressions deep along her forehead and beneath her blue eyes. Despite this she seemed beautiful, motherly, and the anger in his heart subsided momentarily.

The woman stepped past him just as the rodians got to their feet. Before either of them could react to her presence, she waved her hand in a smooth arcing motion towards them. “You will both return to your homes. Tomorrow, before you come here, you will take the time to donate generously to the poor.”

Both rodians stared straight ahead in a trancelike state. Then they blinked, resuming their regular posture. “Let’s go home,” the second said flatly, and the first nodded in agreement. They both pivoted and began packing up their belongings.

Tyar watched her cautiously. “Why did you do that?”

“Wrath is not our way.”

_Our way?_ Tyar could only stare slack-jawed. He had no words for the confusion he felt. How did she make them leave? Even more than that, how was it that Tyar had made them choke in the first place?

“You said your brother was hurt?” she continued, her voice serene, “I may be able to help him.”

Her words replaced all other thoughts in Tyar’s mind, rousing him from his own astonishment. _Cirak!_ He reached for her, pulling her along without as much as another word. To his surprise her hand seemed as though already outstretched to take his own.


	5. Brother's Destiny

            Cirak wasn’t sure at what point he’d awoken. Consciousness had returned without his permission, let alone his expectation of ever emerging from the dark once he’d closed his eyes again. He should’ve been dead, but he wasn’t. That realization dawned no sooner than he’d realized that his eyes were in fact open.

A makeshift tent of fabric hung loosely overhead, attached at its midpoint to something Cirak couldn’t make out from the interior. Rolling his head to the right he made saw a wooden basin beside his pillow filled with a shallow pool of darkened water. A piece of fragmented metal lay within.

            He sat up, groaning before taking note of his missing shirt and the linen bindings around his ribs. Red-brown stains were barely visible where he’d been pierced, and when Cirak stripped the bandages he found that no scar marked his body. There was no evidence that he’d been injured at all, not even lingering pain. He traced where the mark should’ve been; the spot wasn’t even tender.

            To his left he found his father’s blaster, now scrubbed clean of the blood Cirak had left printed on its grip. He made a cursory check of the weapon, finding no sabotage or tampering whatsoever. A full clip was still loaded. Cirak sighed, allowing himself to relax somewhat as his fingers traced the frame. Tyar was here and, even better, he hadn’t fired a single shot.

            _He didn’t listen to me either,_ Cirak thought, suddenly frowning. _I told him to leave._

            Still, despite his annoyance, Cirak couldn’t stop himself from feeling considerable relief at his brother’s disobedience. They were both alive after all. If his brother hadn’t found genuine help then he never would’ve woken in the first place.

            After spotting his shirt in the tent’s corner, Cirak put it on and got to his feet. His legs felt weak, and they shook uncontrollably, but he willed himself to remain upright. He slid the blaster into his front pants pocket. Tyar had to be nearby, but if he wasn’t, Cirak wasn’t about to go looking unarmed.

He pushed the tent flap outward and shambled through. They’d been moved outside the abandoned building of their impact, around the corner and into a _cul-de-sac_ with buildings of similar disrepair. The speeder, though still heavily damaged, had somehow been moved from underneath the rubble and now lay dormant at the end of the street. Were it not for the surrounding area, Cirak would’ve doubted that they were anywhere near where they’d crashed.

To his relief he found his brother not far from where he’d emerged. The child sat on a discarded refrigerator lying sideways among piles of refuse, his back facing him. Another figure sat with him, robed and speaking to Tyar in low tones. A fire burned in an emptied fuel drum in front of them, and they looked little more than silhouettes against its heat. Whatever she was saying seemed to fill Tyar with excitement. A grin stretched from ear-to-ear on his face, and he nodded along with the figure’s words, enraptured.

Then Tyar lifted his hand, palm facing upwards. To Cirak’s astonishment the fuel drum lifted inches off the ground, where it hung suspended in the air. No wires held it up that Cirak could see, and it couldn’t have been a trick of the light. All the while Tyar giggled at the sight. Cirak couldn’t find what was so funny about it. If anything it was terrifying.

“Tyar?”

The fuel drum fell back down to the ground hard, a plume of flame sending sparks outward upon impact. Tyar turned, his eyes wide, and leapt from his seat towards Cirak. His brother’s face pressed into his stomach as Tyar wrapped him in a hug, one that would’ve sent them both tumbling to the ground had Cirak not already expected it. He patted his brother on the head, sighing and closing his eyes once more. They were both okay. Somehow, they were both okay.

Ahead of them the figure (whom Cirak could now identify as a human woman, if not at least human-like) rose to her feet and stepped towards them, her hands folded in front of her, watchful. Cirak eyed her carefully. Something felt off about her, even though she was most likely the one who’d saved his life in the first place. The wind itself seemed as though it billowed through her and not around her, an empty, hollow spot in the void of Nar Shaddaa that would’ve been indistinguishable had she not made herself known.

“I guess I should be saying thanks,” Cirak said, nodding to her. He held Tyar closer and angled his body towards the woman.

“None are necessary,” she replied, her voice raspy and nearly inaudible.

“Still, you saved my hide in addition to my kid brother’s, probably. That’s worth something in my book. Can I at least get your name?”

“My name is unimportant. There are other things we-”

Tyar stepped back, his eyes so wide that Cirak could see the skyscrapers’ lights within them. “She’s a Jedi! She has a lightsaber and it’s green and it goes _hrrum…hrrum…_ ” Tyar pantomimed as though swinging a blade cutting through the air while humming for effect.

He’d heard of Jedi before, muttered usually in conjunction with utterances of the Sith. From what he understood of them they were supposedly great warriors of the Republic unparalleled in the sophistications of combat. A single well-trained Jedi could take out an entire squadron of soldiers, and they themselves were nigh unkillable.

The woman before him did not match what he’d heard of the Jedi. She did not appear as though a dauntless warrior. Beneath her baggy robes her arms were nothing more than thin sticks affixed to her body. Though heavily obscured by the shadows, her face bore evident wrinkles brought on from many long years in the galaxy. There was no way that she could’ve fought for the Republic; she probably couldn’t handle a Jawa.

“That’s neat kid,” Cirak said. She’d probably just spun a story for him to pass the time. He still didn’t know how long he’d been out, or-

“It is alright to have doubts young one,” the woman said, “But your distrust is misplaced.”

Cirak reeled in shock. “How did you…?” All his instincts blared to him that this woman was a danger, yet he resisted reaching for the blaster at his side.

“She’s a Jedi,” Tyar repeated, no less blunt than a hammer.

The woman – the Jedi – bowed her head slightly in Tyar’s direction. “Go ahead and sit by the fire Tyar Kiht, and practice what we talked about. I would like to speak to your brother for a moment.”

Tyar looked up Cirak and waited. After a moment’s pause he nodded his approval, and Tyar bounded back towards the fire. As Cirak watched, the fuel drum started shaking again as though seized by tremors, then slowly resumed its levitation from before Cirak had interrupted.

“How is he doing that?”

“All things are possible through the Force. Tyar has a remarkable sensitivity to it, but he still has much to learn.”

“The Force? What’s the Force?”

“The Force is what binds all things in the universe, living or otherwise. It’s what-”

“Lady,” Cirak interrupted, “If I wanted the cryptic answer I would’ve asked for a blasted pamphlet. What. Is. It?”

“I have explained it as best as I can,” the Jedi said. “Others have made attempts to give a more concrete explanation, but it is never a satisfactory one. The best that I can put it is that your brother has a gift. He is in touch with things in this life that most others are not. The Force is how I healed your wound, which would’ve been otherwise fatal. One day Tyar may be able to help others like that as well.”

Cirak looked away from her back to Tyar, who was still using this Force…thing. It didn’t seem possible. Not Tyar, not the kid who still laughed along with holotoons on early mornings or cried in fear from supposed monsters under the bed. It wasn’t possible that his kid brother could be like the Jedi, and yet he couldn’t deny what his own eyes saw.

“Many months ago, I felt the Force calling me here while I was in meditation. During my duration here I’ve waited, meditated more, but found no answer beyond the Force willing me here. I did not understand why at the time, but I believe I came to Nar Shaddaa to find your brother.

“We have a temple on Coruscant,” she continued. “Tyar can receive training there alongside others. One day he could become a Jedi.”

“What about me? Do I have this sensitivity thing like he does? Would I be able to get training too?”

“I could not sense it within you while you were unconscious. As I said before, it is a rare gift.”

Cirak shrugged in exasperation. “So what does that mean?”

A mournful expression crossed the Jedi’s face. “You would remain here, and I would take Tyar to Coruscant.”

“What? Why can’t I go with him?” Cirak asked indignantly.

“I could not in good conscience take you from the planet of your birth and place you alone on one foreign. I do not even have the resources to ensure a place of stability for you. The Republic is at the height of war with the Empire currently; you’d find the streets of Coruscant no safer than here.”

“But I wouldn’t _be_ alone. If Tyar is going to be at this temple of yours, then I’d stick close to him.”

“Unfortunately, you cannot do that,” the Jedi continued, “Attachments are forbidden by the Jedi Code, including familial attachments. It is why we usually adopt children into the Order while they’re young, sometimes no older than infants: to prevent them from forming such bonds that might conflict with their training. Tyar is already older than we’d like, but not beyond the point of disqualification.”

Cirak glared at her, half-ready to draw his blaster if need be. “Then no way. I’m not letting you take him,” he growled.

“Cirak-”

“No! I’m not going to let you take my kid brother and turn him into some sort of child soldier for your blasted cult.”

“Calm yourself,” she said, her tone adopting a sudden firmness, but one bereft of anger. “It is true that we are at war, but we do not loose children upon our enemies. Jedi are keepers of the peace, not the stones we sling at our enemies. I have in fact known many Jedi who have never taken a life, and whom have instead worked as a leader in communities in pursuit of peace. Others are scholars and teachers. Tyar would not be forced into a life of violence, I can promise you that.

“Take a deep breath, and calm your emotions. I cannot rip your brother from your arms and take him against either or your wills. To do so would be an act of immense cruelty. But to keep him here, refuse him a chance at a better life, is that a kindness? He won’t lack for food or shelter at the temple, and he’ll be around others like him. Does that not sound better than the streets of Nar Shaddaa?”

“We can get by.”

“He has the chance to do more than just get by. He has a greater destiny than what you envision for him.”

Cirak inhaled slowly, and then lowered his eyes before closing them altogether. “He’s all I’ve got left,” he said, his voice cracking. Perhaps he hoped that his words would move her to rescind her offer to take Tyar, removing Cirak’s choice from the table. Maybe he hoped it would steel his conviction to keep his brother by his side. Maybe he just needed to hear himself say it.

It didn’t change that she was right. He couldn’t provide for Tyar here, and he was at greater risk of harm than he would be under the tutelage of the Jedi Order. This was an opportunity for Tyar to do more than just get by. With anyone else he could’ve allowed himself to be selfish enough to put his own wants first, but not Tyar’s.

“When will you take him?”

“It would be best to leave for Coruscant as soon as possible, for both your sakes.”

Cirak gritted his teeth at her response. He’d hoped for at least a day, if not a few, so that he could warm up to the idea and prepare the goodbyes he never got to have with his father. Everything had happened too quickly. Dad’s death had only been evident to him what felt like hours ago. Now he was losing Tyar as well.

“I want to talk to him first,” Cirak said, nodding in Tyar’s direction, “and if he refuses to go, then that’s it. Your whole offer is done.”

The Jedi nodded and stepped aside for Cirak to pass. As he approached Tyar he saw that his brother had grown tired of playing with the fuel drum and had moved on to folding a leaflet he’d found among the garbage. Cirak took a seat next to him, watching his little brother work as he creased lines and turned the paper over again, repeating the process. Upon completion Tyar held up his handiwork.

“Is that a starship?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m the one who taught you how to make that.”

“I guess.” Tyar shrugged. “Dad sometimes makes them with me too.”

“Yeah, he did.”

Cirak paused, staring into the open flames. Its heat felt dim against his skin, and he hadn’t realized how cold he felt until he felt its warmth. Beside him Tyar began rotating the paper fighter through the air.

“Put that down for a second kid.”

Tyar frowned but complied.

“I was talking with…uh… _her_ , and, the thing is…” Cirak bit his lower lip. He could phrase it in such a way that Tyar would never want to go. Lying was not off the table either. With a sigh Cirak internally rejected both those options and forced himself to continue. “Thing is, kid, she wants to take you to be a Jedi.”

Tyar’s red eyes grew wide, the excitement within them dwarfing all other signs of joy on his face. “Really? I get to be a Jedi?”

Cirak let out a restrained chuckle despite himself. “Well only if you want to. She won’t force you to go if you aren’t willing.”

“Will I get a lightsaber?”

“I don’t know. Probably?”

“I want a purple one.”

“I don’t think they let you pick by favorite color kid.”

“Aww,” Tyar groaned, though his smile remained. Though Cirak could not bring himself to look down at his brother, he could feel his discerning stare weighing heavily upon him. “Are you gonna get trained too?”

Cirak shook his head. “Nah, just you. You’d be going without me.”

“What? _No_ ,” Tyar whined. “No, I want you to come too.”

His brother’s words tore at his heart. “I know kid, and I wish I could, but-”

“It’s not fair.” Beside him the paper fighter crumpled, crushed by unseen hands.

“No, I know it’s not, and it isn’t, but that’s just how it is.”

“I don’t want to go without you.”

It was all Cirak had wanted to hear, and had the deal been anything else he would’ve told the Jedi to stuff her offer. He wasn’t even entirely sure that option wasn’t off the table, that his own wants wouldn’t supersede what was best for his brother. But that’s what it came down to: what was best for Tyar. If he had been prepared to die for him, then Cirak had to be ready to lose him altogether.

Cirak placed his hands on Tyar’s shoulders, turning his brother towards him. Tyar fought his grip, but when struggle proved futile he met Cirak’s eyes. “Listen to me kid. You’re meant for so much more than – than _this_.” He gestured to the decrepit streets around them. “You’re going to be a Jedi. You’re going to help people and save the galaxy. You are special.”

Tyar wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. “But what about you?”

“I’ll be okay,” Cirak said. “Kihts always get by, remember?”

“Yeah.” His brother’s gaze fell away once more, drifting back over to the shadows cast by dancing flames. “I’ll miss you.”

“Don’t Tyar. This isn’t goodbye for good. We’re going to meet again someday,” Cirak said. The words felt empty, and he wasn’t sure if he entirely believed them. Before he could say anything else Tyar had him in his grip again, the hug tighter than he’d ever received. Cirak sighed and embraced his brother back. He was so small. “You’re going to be okay kid.”

From the corner of his eye Cirak saw the Jedi approaching again, and he gently pushed Tyar away. His brother resisted, somewhat, but then let go altogether. The Jedi offered her hand, and Cirak watched as Tyar took her in his own. “It is time.”

Cirak, unable to bring himself to watch them leave, instead turned his focus back to the fire. “Good luck kid.”

“Cee?”

He choked down the lump in his throat. “Hey lady, promise that my brother’s going to be safe with you. Promise me that you’re going to take care of him.”

Silence followed his words, and for a moment Cirak thought he was too late. Then, “I promise we will do all that we can. May the Force be with you.”

Cirak frowned, keeping his gaze firmly on the ground, fighting back the urge to rise, chase the Jedi down, and take his brother somewhere far away. He closed his eyes, cementing the image of Tyar in his mind, trying to make his soft black hair and tight grip forever ingrained into his memory. A flurry of emotions overwhelmed him, and he turned to seize one final glance at his brother.

But they were already gone, and for the first time in his life Cirak was completely alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've been enjoying please check out and follow my blog greencrusader13.tumblr.com. I have a poll linked to the most recent chapter posted there that would help give me some direction for upcoming chapters. Thank you again to everyone who's been reading.


	6. The Two Masters

            Another quake shook the interior of the ship, rattling a row of commemorative glasses arranged upon the shelves of Lord Rhoral’s quarters. Eonur had taken to a corner there, seated with his knees against his chest as far as he could manage from the Imperial guards that stood near the blast doors, their blaster rifles trained on whatever might come through them while watching a security feed of the outside hallway. Still he remained within Lord Rhoral’s inescapable sight regardless of how much he wished to be out of it. He found no comfort in the Sith Lord’s presence, only fear and anger.

            He wasn’t sure how long it had been since the Imperials announced the Republic ambush. The sounds of warfare and violence were well outside of his earshot, and no further reports had been made. For all Eonur knew it could’ve been over already.

            Lord Rhoral himself sat behind a row of polished silver chess pieces at a table in the center of the room, hand stroking his chin as he contemplated his next move against the golden pieces. No sooner had he moved a silver piece before reaching out with his power to move one of the golds to take the silver pawn he’d just played. His game had no concept of allegiance, not when he controlled both sides, and his victory was ensured. Eonur had seen his previous master’s household play the game sometimes against one another, but never a match between oneself.

            The Sith Lord’s amber eyes flicked up and locked on to Eonur. His expression remained neutral, if not intrigued. “I suppose it would be a foolish question to ask if you were familiar with this game.”

            Eonur kept quiet despite all past experiences having taught him that silence in response to a direct question often resulted in beatings. Lord Rhoral was probably capable of even worse, and yet Eonur couldn’t bring himself to answer. Fear, hatred, and anger constricted his throat and blocked all forms of response. Jowporin was dead by this Sith’s hand, snuffed out in an instant without reason.

            That was the worst of it, the senselessness. He’d seen many other slaves die before, some blasted or shocked to death from disobedience while others died of exhaustion brought on from days of intense labor. It was expected. Lord Rhoral had no purpose in killing Jowporin, nothing to gain from the violence.

            Lord Rhoral – as though sensing Eonur’s resentment – rolled his eyes in response to his silence. “Yes, yes, the wookiee is dead. Your rage will help you later, but right now you’re just wasting your energy.” In a firmer tone he added, “Sit,” and nodded towards the other chair directly across from him.

            Hesitantly, Eonur rose to his feet and climbed into the chair. Its deep red wood was unnaturally smooth, feeling more like polished glass than any sort of carving. The whole room held an air of refined hollowness, an insincere ornateness that belied something far more savage. Red carpeting covered the floor, the Imperial sigil in its center. The brightness of its color made it seem as though servants cleaned it regularly to a point of perfection. A shelf stacked with books and holocrons sat adjacent to Rhoral’s made bed, each volume arranged in a neat line. And yet despite this refinery, the Sith Lord hung the heads of various beasts and creatures the likes of which Eonur had never seen. Their faces appeared contorted, fearful even. Eonur felt himself shrink under their demented gaze.

            Lord Rhoral began resetting the pieces, paying Eonur no heed as he did. Despite the demonstration of his powers just moments before, he arranged the pieces by hand in simple movement that were as methodical as they were swift. When he’d finished, Eonur’s gold pieces lay in direct opposition to Rhoral’s silver.

            “We have time to spare,” Lord Rhoral said. “In the meantime, we can play while our soldiers put down the Republic’s hounds.” He then diverted into the rules of the game, explaining what each piece did, and how they moved. His summation felt of little help: by and large the game still felt unfamiliar, and Eonur knew he was playing against someone far better than himself. “The objective of chess isn’t so much about taking your opponent’s pieces as it is about taking the _right_ pieces. Playing too aggressively and aiming for rampant destruction will only cost you your victory.” He locked eyes with Eonur once more. “Consider that a metaphor.”

            Eonur nodded slowly, dropping his gaze from the Sith’s. It was probably best to avoid mentioning that he didn’t know anything about metaphors.

            The first round went as well as he could’ve expected. Lord Rhoral dismantled any semblance of strategy Eonur put up with lethal ease, often seeming to know his next move before Eonur had even decided it. With a gentle flick of his finger Lord Rhoral pushed over Eonur’s king without so much as touching it. A wry grin spread on his face. “Again.” And he began setting up the board once more.

            Each subsequent match proved itself to be an exercise in futility. On occasion Eonur would manage to take one of Lord Rhoral’s pieces, only to then lose his own in the process, followed by several additional losses. All the while the Sith sat across from him, amused. Neither of them spoke, and the only sounds were those of the battles occurring on the ship and the board.

            After one game Lord Rhoral looked up at Eonur, his expression one of annoyance. “You play weak.”

            “I’m still learning,” Eonur grumbled, focusing his attention back on the chessboard. He reached for his pieces, only for Lord Rhoral to slap his hand away. Wincing, Eonur nursed his stinging hand.

            “You play weak,” Lord Rhoral repeated. “I’ve watched what little strategy you possess closely. Many times you were in a position to cripple me, dull my advance, even gain the upper hand, and all you had to do was sacrifice a pawn. Yet you refused. I wonder: was it stupidity or weakness that stayed your hand?”

            “I’m trying not to lose pieces.”

            “They exist to be your sacrifices. They are to be disposed of in pursuit of victory. _They mean_ _nothing_.” Lord Rhoral rapped his knuckles on the chessboard with each word. Bated anger emanated from his cold glare, and once again Eonur felt afraid of the Sith.

            But the more he thought on Lord Rhoral’s words, his fear gave way to anger once more. He’d heard a similar line of thinking from his masters in the past, from his underlings and anyone who answered to him. Slaves were nothing. Slaves were expendable. They existed only to do the work of their master, whatever the toil or cost.

            And Lord Rhoral had treated Jowporin as such, as nothing, and had killed him as such. The Empire had planned on using Eonur himself as a pawn in their siege, and he likely would’ve been sacrificed to their ambitions too if not for Lord Rhoral’s notice of him. Eonur only lived because the Sith saw him as potentially more useful than as a sacrifice.

            Eonur knew what it was like to be considered nothing, and knew it to be wrong. Jowporin had meant something to him; he had mattered.

            “I don’t want to play your game anymore,” Eonur said.

            Lord Rhoral said nothing at first, fixing Eonur with a cold gaze that seemed to drain all semblance of life from the room. “In time you will. For now, there can be other ways you learn. Pain is a teacher second to none. You’ll be well acquainted by-”

            Sudden beeping from Lord Rhoral’s holocom silenced him. A distorted image of the same Imperial woman who’d informed them of the attack appeared on the disc. In the background Imperial brass were issuing frantic orders, and the destruction around them sounded closer than ever. “Milord, the Republic has boarded. We’ve lost the hanger bay, and Republic soldiers interrupted before we could finish arming the slaves for detonation. We’re sustaining heavy casualties.”

            Lord Rhoral shot to his feet. “ _How?_ ” he snarled. For a glimmering second Eonur thought he sensed fear.

            “They have a Jedi Master with them. Our surveillance shows that he’s-”

            But she had no time to finish. A sudden blast cut off the rest of her words, followed by the sound of blaster fire. Silence followed, and Lord Rhoral was left holding the empty holocom in his palm. His wiry red fingers curled around the device, constricting it ever tighter until it was crushed in his hand. Blood oozed between the cracks.

            Eonur couldn’t help but take glee in Lord Rhoral’s defeat. Defiance emblazoned him with a previously unfelt courage, and he sat up higher in his chair. He was probably going to die – this Republic didn’t seem keen on taking any prisoners at the moment, but he didn’t care. Without Lord Rhoral it probably would’ve happened anyways in the battle he’d been bought for in the first place. Jowporin’s death would not go unpaid.

            “You lose,” Eonur said quietly.

            Lord Rhoral did not seem to hear him, instead staring at the opposite wall in a blank rage. His attention then snapped back to Eonur. “Get up,” Lord Rhoral seethed, seizing him by the back of his shirt with his bloodied hand and dragging him to his feet. Before Eonur could steady himself a crimson blade hissed to life mere inches from his neck, the weapon’s hilt steady in Lord Rhoral’s hand. Even then he couldn’t bring himself to fear Lord Rhoral.

            Yet the Sith Lord remained distant, now focused on the blast doors sealing out the Republic forces more than anything else within the room. Lord Rhoral’s hunger seemed to radiate through his very being. His bared teeth made him resemble an animal, one that eagerly awaited its cage to be opened.

            From the corner of his eye Eonur saw motion on the video feed. A man stood outside the blast doors, a deep hood obscuring his face from sight. Despite being in a warzone, he seemed to carry himself serenely, walking almost as though out for a stroll. His gaze drifted upwards to the camera, and with the slightest flick of his wrist he waved. Then he stretched out both hands towards the blast doors. Metal shrieked under as it was forcibly torn apart, the locks trying their hardest to sustain their function. The ship itself seemed to tremble from the Force the man wielded.

The Imperial commander in Lord Rhoral’s room barked an order, and the others rushed themselves into position, forming a horizontal line that wedged themselves between the door and the Sith. Whomever was trying to enter would face a firing squad.

Suddenly the blast doors were ripped open in a terrible wave of energy, the metal lurching inwards on itself as though made of malleable plastic. Eonur heard the striking hum of another blade, and an instant later a blur of blue cut down the soldiers faster than his own eyes could track. They fell in seconds, one after the other, leaving the man alone with Eonur and the Sith. The man remained posed for a moment with his blade across his chest, then shifted, bringing both hands to its hilt while guarding his body from them.

In a single flowing motion the man removed his cloak, and for the first time Eonur could see his face. While not considerably old, the lines under his deep brown eyes suggested that he was well past his younger days. He seemed to regard Lord Rhoral with cautious familiarity, and did not lower his weapon.

“Orgus Din,” Lord Rhoral said, his voice full of disdain.

“Rhoral. I see time hasn’t made you any more pleasant.”

Lord Rhoral raised his own blade slightly, the red beam humming even closer to Eonur’s neck. He shied away as best he could, but Lord Rhoral’s other hand gripped his shoulder’s too tight for him to move. “Another step and the boy dies. Could you live with that, Jedi? I know I can, and I was ready here to take him as my apprentice.”

Orgus Din’s eyes flickered to Eonur, but his expression remained resolute. “Lower your lightsaber and let the kid go. You’ve lost. Havoc Squad has already secured your ship, and many of your men have surrendered. We don’t need any more bloodshed today.”

“Insolent worm!”

Just then Lord Rhoral loosened his grip on Eonur’s shoulder. Acting purely on instinct he drove his elbow into the Sith’s side, staggering him. He dove to the side, scrambling into a corner while the Jedi took advantage of his distraction. Orgus Din closed the distance in a fraction of a second.

But Lord Rhoral moved just as fast. Their lightsabers clashed in a screech of energy, locking until Orgus spun away. They moved as a whirlwind each of their strikes matching evenly with one another. Eonur watched – amazed and terrified – as their battle unfolded, Lord Rhoral’s savagery on full display against Orgus Din’s disciplined technique. He could sense desperation from the Sith, fear even.

Orgus lunged and, with a twirl of his lightsaber, sent Lord Rhoral’s flying from his hand, sheathing itself as it flew through the air. It rolled towards Eonur’s corner, clattering as it came to a stop at his feet. The Jedi pointed his blade at the Sith’s throat, but did not make the killing blow. Lord Rhoral raised his hands meekly, pathetically.

“It’s _over,_ ” Orgus repeated.

“All right, I surrender,” Lord Rhoral said. “Take me into Republic custody if you wish. Please show me mercy.”

“I’m surprised you know what mercy means, much less that you’d expect it to be given to you. I thought the concept was lost on Sith.” Still Orgus Din lowered his lightsaber and began his approach.

Eonur saw Lord Rhoral’s fingers twitch, and his lightsaber trembled in accord. In seconds that felt endlessly stretched it leapt into motion, hurdling towards Lord Rhoral’s hand as the crimson blade raged back to life before Orgus Din could react.

“No!”

Eonur reached out as though to catch the lightsaber before it could take flight, though it was far from his physical grasp. As though hearing his cry the weapon froze, suspended midair between the space separating Eonur from Lord Rhoral. It shook violently as Eonur’s will fought against the Sith’s, and it seemed as though it might burst into shards at any moment.

It was all Orgus Din needed. In a swift motion he slashed Lord Rhoral deep across the chest. The Sith fell, the diagonal burn still sizzling as his body hit the ground. Eonur couldn’t sense anything from him anymore. He was dead.

With a heavy sigh Eonur fell to his knees. Lord Rhoral was dead. Jowporin had been avenged, and he didn’t need to fear the Sith Lord anymore. The surge of emotions forced tears into his eyes, and Eonur watched as they fell to the carpet in single drops.

He then felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned his gaze up. The Jedi – Orgus Din – watched him, eyes full of sympathy. Eonur shuddered, then without meaning to he wrapped him into a tight hug.

“Hey, you’re safe now,” Orgus said, patting Eonur on the back. “Did he hurt you?” Eonur shook his head. Orgus then guided him back to his feet, his hands firm on Eonur’s shoulders. “That was some quick thinking you did there. You probably saved me.”

“Really?”

“Yeah really. That was pretty handy of you, thinking to use the Force like that.” Orgus glanced around the room. “Come on, you shouldn’t stay here. Would you like to go somewhere safe.”

Eonur hesitated. The last time he’d shown excitement at his situation improving Lord Rhoral had killed his best friend. What if these people – the Republic – were no different? He stepped back.

“You don’t need to be afraid. Where we’ll go there will be a lot of people who will help you, and you’ll be safe. Would you like that?”

He brought his eyes to meet Orgus Din’s again, making note of their serenity. Whereas Lord Rhoral’s had held barely restrained brutality and deceit, the Jedi’s felt pure, truthful. Slowly Eonur nodded.

Orgus Din rose to his feet with a smile and pulled out a holocom from his pocket. “Tavus, it’s Din. We’re going to need to take a detour back to Coruscant.”


	7. Future Jedi

            The Republic transport craft hummed as it hovered above the atmosphere of the sprawling city encompassing the entire planet. Even without breathing it in Tyar knew the surface would have cleaner air compared to the smell of refuse that would fill his lungs back home. Coruscant was already a far cry from Nar Shaddaa, at least from above the skyline. He’d never been so high up on his home planet.

            His adventure had contained little excitement after leaving home, mostly comprising a considerable amount of sitting and waiting as they took one shuttle after the other on their way to the heart of the Republic. The Jedi who’d found him, Master Valara Vartil, spent most of her time meditating in perfect silence during the lengthy transits, unperturbed by the turbulence they sometimes encountered or the questions he’d ask. She’d always urge him patience, but explain little. Eventually Tyar grew tired of asking at all.

This ride had been no different, and there was at least some comfort in the fact that it was the last one for a while. It didn’t change his boredom. Tyar sat slumped, all but lying flat on his seat while the cabin gently jostled around him in its descent. There was a pile of three holomags to his right, only some of them interesting. He didn’t care for galactic gossip or dining or anything of a banal nature. One series of articles about swoop racing held his attention for an hour, but even the stories grew dull as he ran out of pictures to admire.

            Continually he’d look over and expect to see his big brother there too, but always found the space he should’ve occupied empty. Cirak was still on Nar Shaddaa. They were entire systems apart now, and the space between them felt heavier on Tyar’s shoulders than it had in any of the past days. He’d cried the first night without him, pouring his tears into the blankets he’d been given so no one would see. Somehow when Cirak said everything would be all right, Tyar believed him. Even without Dad he’d felt safer with his big brother around. It didn’t feel right not having him there where he couldn’t hear his words of comfort.

            Tyar glanced to the seat across from him. Master Valara sat cross legged in a meditative posture, her breathing so slow it seemed almost nonexistent. Both seats on either side of her were empty; in fact there were few people aboard anyways. There was the odd Republic soldier standing guard at the front and back of the shuttle, but from what he could see the rows were mostly empty. Tyar’s eyes lingered on one of the soldiers who was leaning against a wall with crossed arms. Growing up he’d seen gang members loitering on the streets of Nar Shaddaa with the same sort of posture, but their expressions had always been hardened and intense, territorial. Here, though, his arms were not held so tight, and there was a slight grin from the corners of his mouth. For this soldier, it was home.

            Grabbing a holomag. Tyar pushed himself upright and slid out of his seat, holding the reader close to his chest. The Jedi Master remained unperturbed by his sudden decision to rise, and so he slinked off without alerting her to his departure. He moved through the sliding doors at one end of the shuttle to another section of the ship. It appeared equally empty, with only a few individuals resting in their seats.

            Master Valara had said something about a war going on, and Cirak had said something similar a bit ago too. Sometimes, late at night when his big brother thought he was asleep, Tyar would find him watching some programming on the conflict, only to turn it off as soon as he noticed him. It must be pretty bad, Tyar figured. People probably aren’t traveling a whole bunch if bad things are happening around the galaxy.

            Still, he couldn’t imagine it being any worse than daily life on Nar Shaddaa. He didn’t feel the same tension on Coruscant, neither within himself nor the other passengers.

             Each of the rooms aboard the smaller transport were identical, built for efficiency and maximizing occupancy rather than the comfort of its occupants. Two columns of seating split the hold into thirds with plenty of space to meander as they endured their travels. A window spanned the entire space on the wall to the left. A few errant passengers looked out it down at the metropolis below, one of them a Zabrak boy who couldn’t have been hardly any older than Tyar himself.

            Tyar hadn’t seen many children since leaving Nar Shaddaa. Even on his home planet he knew very few other children. Dad had always said school would be a waste of time and that he’d enroll him in it once they moved to another planet, and their apartment complex had housed few other families besides their own. Cirak had been the closest person in age that he knew. He felt vaguely intimidated at the prospect of meeting someone close to him in age, but he felt a pull towards the Zabrak, similar to the one he’d felt from Master Valara. With cautious steps Tyar began his approach.

            The Zabrak – an iridonian – turned to face him. Tyar froze, still several steps away, and looked over the boy. Faded outlines of cuts lined his face and neck, the scars mostly healed but still visible. Like all other Zabrak he had horns atop his head, but his were still short, barely grown in. His tunic, of a similar make as the ones Valara wore under her robes, appeared deceptively new in the face of his more weathered physical features. Golden lights from the cityscape below illuminated his face in such a way that it emphasized its damage, and Tyar spotted in his brown eyes subdued caution, confusion.

“You’re like me,” Tyar said.

The Zabrak said nothing at first, his confusion more evident as he narrowed his eyebrows. After another moment his expression softened. “Are you a Jedi?” There was a subtle wonder in his tone.

“No. Are you?”

He shook his head. “I’m being taken to the Temple though. One day I’m going to be. Did a Jedi Master find you too?”

“Master Orgus did. He took me here with his…uh…” the Zabrak boy trailed off and cocked his head. “I think he called him a ‘paddle won.’ His name’s Bengel. He’s nice.” He smiled slightly.

Outside another Republic ship sailed past them. The planetary lights shimmered off the metal and rippled across the boys face, drawing attention to his irregularities again. Tyar regarded the boy’s facial features. “Why’s your face all weird?”

The other boy recoiled, reaching up to gently touch his cheek with his hand. “It’s not weird…” He turned away, obviously hurt by Tyar’s statement.

“I didn’t mean it like it was a bad thing. I’m sorry.” Tyar watched as the other boy’s expression remained cautious, perhaps even a little frightened. Deep down it wasn’t too unlike what Tyar was feeling himself. “Do you like holotoons?”

“I’ve never watched any holotoons.”

“You’ve _never_ watched holotoons?” Tyar couldn’t restrain his shock. “Do you like swoop?”

“I had an old master who raced swoop. Sometimes I would hold lights while people worked on them so they could see.”

_Old master?_ Tyar wondered, and slowly he comprehended what he meant. The scratches and scars on the other boy’s face suddenly made sense. “You were a slave?”

The boy nodded. Tyar knew that a similar fate could’ve befallen him if Cirak hadn’t saved him from the gangs on Nar Shaddaa, even if his older brother had thought he hadn’t realized it. To think that someone actually lived through it, and that he was nearly the same age as him. The times growing up that Tyar played with toys, this boy was probably forced to do hard labor. Pity swelled in Tyar’s chest. In another life their positions could’ve been reversed.

But now they were the same, regardless of circumstance. They would be Jedi, heroes. It couldn’t have been chance that they were both here now, both on their way to Coruscant. If the Force really was in all things like Master Valara said, then maybe it was why they’d met.

After a pause Tyar held out the holomag and turned it on, flipping it to a page on a swoop bike he’d found notable. He approached the boy and handed him the device. “Do you want to look at swoop bikes with me?” The boy stared at him blankly. “You can take it,” Tyar urged.

The Zabrak took the holomag from his hands. His posture loosened, and he smiled again.

“This one’s called the Amzab ZB-2,” Tyar said, “It’s one of the fastest models in racing right now.”

“What kind of repulsor does it run on?”

“I don’t know.”

“They should use an Aratech Whirlwind Y6 model repulsorlift. It has great lift and helps stabilize the bike during acceleration. That’s what my friend taught me. He knew a lot about swoop bikes.” The boy swallowed hard, as though fighting back a lump in his throat. “His name was Jowporin. He died before Master Orgus found me. I think he would’ve liked this bike.”

“My brother and I always wanted to get speeder bikes of our own one day,” Tyar said, “We’d talk about it a lot.” He looked back at the boy. “Do you miss your friend?”

“Yeah.”

“I miss my brother too. His name is Cirak. He knew a lot of stuff about bikes and swoop too.” Tyar paused. “I’m sorry about your friend. Cirak almost died once too, and it made me really sad and scared. Is that how you feel?”

“Master Orgus has been trying to make me feel better, but…I still really miss him.”

Their transport rumbled, and outside the window Coruscant seemed to draw closer. Skyscrapers took shape rather than being a conglomerate of lights and outlines, and though they were as small as flies Tyar thought he could see traffic whirring on busy lanes below. They’d be at the Jedi Temple soon, no doubt.

“If you’d like I can be your new friend,” Tyar said, “We can talk more about speeders and starships and do Jedi stuff and everything. Maybe one day we can even get one.” Before the other boy could respond Tyar shot out his hand. “I’m Tyar. Tyar Kiht.”

The boy glanced between Tyar’s hand and his face. After another pause he shook it. “I’m Eonur.”

Tyar beamed and continued shaking Eonur’s hand. Not knowing if he should let go or not Tyar instead playfully swung their grip side-to-side. He giggled, and Eonur began laughing as well. It was silly, but it was the first time he’d laughed in days.

And for the first time since leaving home Tyar didn’t feel quite so alone.


	8. Coruscant Sunet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it took so long to get another chapter out. A few months back I started a new job, and adjusting to that new schedule made it a lot harder to find the time or energy to write. I think I've started working out a good pace though, so hopefully it won't take too long for the next one. Thank you for your patience.

“Master Shan,” Greylam called, hurrying down the steps of the Jedi Temple. The hem of his robes threatened to trip him mid-gait, and Greylam remained mindful of them as he tried closing the distance between Satele Shan and himself. The senior Jedi was still several paces ahead of him, but she’d stopped and turned at his call. Her expression remained calm, serene, not even curious in the least. Ahead a Republic transport craft waited for her along with a handful of soldiers Greylam presumed she’d been assigned.

Another Jedi off to war. Unlike most others, though, Satele Shan had already distinguished herself as a capable warrior. She’d been on Korriban when the war first started, survived it. She was the sort of hero the Republic wished to follow, as did he. Restraint possessed wisdom of its own, but not when it turned into sloth. He did no good sitting around the temple, not when Greylam knew what he himself was capable of. Perhaps Satele would see it as well.

It was not a decision he’d reached arbitrarily. Each day since hearing of Master Paddoq’s fall he’d meditated on the wisdom of joining the war himself. The idea gnawed at his mind, seizing thoughts normally dedicated to studies and quiet reflection. His nights had been filled with tossing and turning and thinking, pondering. He knew pride was yet another path to the dark side of the Force, especially when viewing oneself with an overinflated sense of self, and he’d made sure that he wasn’t pursuing this out of a misplaced ego. He just wanted to help.

Greylam slowed to a stop ahead of her, panting. He hadn’t thought himself running all that quickly, and yet he found himself out of breath as he reached her. Although he’d recited his appeal within his head on repeat since leaving the library, something about her presence now cowed him into forgetting it entirely. Satele Shan was not an imposing Jedi, far from it in fact. Her blue eyes held a distinct calm obtained from years of training within the Jedi Order. She’d fixed him with an expression of muted concern, her lips pursed as though to tell him everything he thought she’d say without any words.

Still, even under her gaze, Greylam straightened himself and bowed. “Master Shan,” he repeated, meeting her eyes again. It took all the conviction he possessed to keep himself from crumbling under her presence. “I hear that you are heading for the battlefront. Is it true?”

“It is,” she replied. Satele then cocked an eyebrow. “But I’m guessing you did not run all this way just to ask me something you already know, are you?”

“Master Shan, I would humbly petition that you allow me to accompany you wherever you are heading.”

As he spoke Satele Shan turned and waved to her charge of Republic soldiers lingering by the shuttle. Their commander – his face obscured by a helmet, Republic standard issue – nodded and signaled his contingent to board. Greylam watched them file into the ship with a lackadaisical pace, far less regimented and orderly than what he’d expected. Yet their commander didn’t bark orders at them, didn’t press. Perhaps having a Jedi with them shifted their perspective of the mission.

After the soldiers had boarded Satele lowered herself to a knee, meeting Greylam at eye-level. This time he did not look away. “Greylam, war is no place for children. I couldn’t bring you out there in good conscience, not knowing that you could get hurt or killed.”

_There is no death; there is the Force._ “But Master Shan-”

“You humble me, Greylam, but I am no Jedi Master. You can just call me Satele.”

“Satele,” Greylam repeated hesitantly. Her name felt weird in his mouth, and he almost regretted addressing her without her due respect. “I don’t understand. We’re taught that our only limits are what the Force allows. My age shouldn’t diminish how I could aid the Republic. I do not presume my own abilities, and I know I have much to learn, but I want…”

His voice trailed off at that word: want. He wasn’t supposed to want anything. It was unbecoming of a Jedi to want, to allow his own emotions to get in the way of the Order’s wisdom. As he realized this he felt a pang of regret, which he then dismissed with a deep breath.

“I understand what you want Greylam, but all things come in time. Your place is here at the temple. It’s what Master Paddoq would’ve wanted for you as well, no?”

The thought of his old master stirred pain within him. When he’d heard that Paddoq and the rest of the garrison fell it had taken all the meditations he knew to prevent grief from overwhelming him. Even now the loss hurt, although he knew that it was another thing he had to let go. Paddoq was with the Force now. There was comfort in that. No death. It was not all right that some part of him still grieved.

“It was. I apologize for my brashness. I should’ve taken more time to consider the wisdom in staying,” Greylam said, bowing. “My purpose is wherever the Force guides me. I’ll not try to compel it to my own desires.”

“You are still young Greylam,” Satele said. Her faced warmed a little, a small smile forming at the edge of her lips. “There’s much you’ve yet to learn about being a Jedi, and many of these lessons cannot be taught in books. Calm yourself; there’s nothing out beyond the Temple that requires your diligence.

“Perhaps if you’re looking for some way to occupy yourself you could seek out Master Yuon Par. I happen to know that she is always looking for some aid on her archaeology projects.”

The offer intrigued him. He’d heard of Yuon Par and her exploits with the history of the Order, read about them, but he’d never met her. Archaeology happened to be one of the subjects he’d taken a liking to reading during his many hours in the library. “I’ll do that,” he said, turning around to head back to the Jedi Temple.

“Greylam?” Satele called, a note of confusion audible in her tone.

He stopped. “Yes?”

Satele Shan’s expression tempered as he looked back at her. “Things will work out eventually. Trust in the Force, and may it be with you.”

“May the Force be with you too.”

Greylam didn’t remain for the departure of her shuttle, only hearing it depart behind him as he made his way up the steps towards the central ziggurat. A gust of warm wind rippled his robes, and for a moment he hesitated. Glancing back, Greylam watched as the ship became silhouetted against the gold-orange hue of Coruscant’s sun before disappearing altogether.

Night had fully set by the time Greylam reached the archives, and few Jedi remained in its halls. His steps echoed faintly off the marble floor as he made his way down the rows. A stray initiate or two sat at spaces along the table at the repository’s center, their weary eyes struggling to focus on the texts in front of them. A nearby Nautolan girl hadn’t even managed that. Her face remained pressed down against the holopad before her. She snored, and on occasion an initiate would shoot her an annoyed glance.

Greylam had always loved the archives. He’d spent more than his fair share of time there, and if he was lucky he’d spend all the much more. If the Temple Spire was the heart of the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, then the archives were its mind. The space was filled with the faint glow of blue light emanating from the infinite number of texts on shelves around the rotunda. Each of the four wings held different texts, different mysteries. Sometimes searching for them was worth more than what he’d gleamed from the texts at all. From the balconies on the second floor he could look down and watch those in pursuit of knowledge peruse the rows for it. Behind the railings cone-shaped windows would pour natural light into the chamber on clear days. It felt paradoxically open and closed; a world of endless knowledge on an impossible scale so neatly and organically fit within the ziggurat.

Greylam braced himself along the balcony. No one matching Yuon Par’s description remained in the library. She’d likely retired for the night, as was common sense. He couldn’t help but feel mildly disappointed. Although it was late, Greylam could still feel his mind racing, stirring, thinking. If he tried to fall asleep now he’d be up for several more hours, that much Greylam knew.

_I’m already here,_ he thought, shrugging to himself. _I might as well brush up on the topics Yuon Par will want to cover with me._ He scanned the chamber again. From his vantage point he could not see the Chief Librarian, but several analysis droids clanked below as they clumsily moved about the shelves. Perhaps with a quick look he could find what texts she’d browsed recently.

“Come on, you shouldn’t stay up anymore,” a young voice said behind him.

_It’s not that late,_ Greylam thought, then paused. He turned, confused, only to find that the speaker wasn’t speaking to him at all. A Zabrak male roughly around his own age sat crouched by the window across a similarly aged Cathar, the latter of whom’s head remained planted against his knees in a seated fetal position. At the Zabrak’s continued urging the Cathar only shook his head and pulled himself tighter. The fur around his eyes was damp, ruffled from being rubbed at repeatedly. Greylam couldn’t help but feel taken aback. Was he really…crying? Had he no control over his emotions?

The Zabrak glanced over and noticed Greylam staring mutely. “Could you give me some help? Please? Tyar isn’t going to sleep.”

“I don’t wanna,” the Cathar – Tyar – mumbled through his folded arms.

Greylam looked over the boys again. Not long ago he had overheard Master Nomris mentioning that the Order had found two more potential initiates, one from Nar Shaddaa and another a rescued slave. Red rings of chaffed dry skin marked the Zabrak boy’s neck and wrists. “You must be the slave Master Din liberated from the Sith,” Greylam said.

Concern flashed in the boy’s amber eyes, and he stopped his approach. “How did you know that?” Before Greylam could explain his deduction the Zabrak boy touched at his neck and glanced away in shame. It was an odd response, one that he hadn’t expected.

“There’s nothing you need to feel ashamed of,” Greylam replied. “Nobody will think less of you for it. Looking down on others for their background is not the Jedi way, and slavery is an injustice the Republic does not tolerate. I hope they treat you with kindness.” It seemed like something Master Paddoq would’ve said, and Greylam hoped he’d emulated him well.

The boy smiled meekly. Perhaps it was the right thing to say.

“I don’t want to be here,” Tyar moaned as he pressed his weight harder against the glass. “Eonur I want to go home. I want my brother.” He sniffled again before exhaling sharply. Fog formed on the glass inches from his mouth, and Tyar drew a line through it with his finger.

Greylam crouched down to the Cathar boy, who looked up at him with big red eyes. “What you’re feeling right now is just from being in a new place that’s very different for you. It’s not a rational one. As Jedi we need to learn how to control our emotions instead of letting them control us. Does that make sense? If you calm them you might find you like it here.”

Tyar shook his head and looked up at him with large red eyes. “I don’t want to like it here! I just want Dad and Cirak.”

He had once heard from Master Paddoq that some Jedi were like pottery. Some needed more time on the wheel with gentle hands to give them more shape. Others needed time to cool after being in the kiln. Patience and a guiding hand would eventually yield a beautiful creation, regardless of what step you started with. Looking over these two new initiates it was clear that Greylam had lumps of clay.

“Let’s just try a breathing exercise. Eonur I’d like you to try this as well.” Once the Zabrak boy had joined them, Greylam kneeled down on both knees in front of Tyar. The Cathar boy turned in his seat, but did not loose the tension in his posture. “First, we breathe in.” Greylam demonstrated, inhaling slowly through his nose while guiding his right hand up in motion with the breath. Eonur copied him from Greylam’s peripheral. “Then, we just breathe out the same way.” He exhaled from his mouth, letting his hand fall at the same pace down the length of his chest.

Tyar’s first breath was rough, coarse and still embroiled in unchecked fear and anguish. When he exhaled the release of air was more like a huff than a meditative technique, but Greylam saw his shoulders relax all the same. Greylam repeated the technique. Soon Tyar’s chest rose and fell at a normal rhythm, and the crying stopped.

“Are you calm?”

The boy rubbed at his eyes. “I just really miss home.”

_He needs something else to think about,_ Greylam thought. There were hundreds of thousands of texts here in the library, but Tyar did not appear to be in a studious state, and they were unlikely to provide any peace for him. He needed something tranquil that did not require any active focus.

“Would you like to see my favorite place in the entire temple?” Greylam asked.

A hopeful light sparkled in Tyar’s eyes, and he nodded fervently. Greylam offered his hand and helped the boy up as Eonur watched. Tyar’s grip remained firm in Greylam’s even after reaching his feet, and although he wasn’t much smaller than him Tyar still held his hand with the same sort of craving for protection a child would seek from their parent. Greylam wanted to wriggle his hand free, but he could not. The boy would have an emotional reaction again if he did.

Once they were out of the archives Eonur quickened his pace up to Greylam’s side. After a few moments of decided silence he spoke. “Thank you. He was fine for most of the day, but it’s like once it started getting later he started getting really sad, and I couldn’t do anything.”

“It was nothing really,” Greylam replied. “All I did was show him a rudimentary breathing technique for relaxation.”

“Well it worked. Even I felt calmer afterwards, and I wasn’t even the one you were trying to help.”

Greylam struggled to think of an appropriate Jedi teaching or saying to repeat back to him. He had received many over his years at the temple, but in the moment they seemed to vanish from his mind. It would’ve just confused him anyhow. Greylam instead opted for the simpler response. “You are welcome.”

The gardens were empty when the three arrived, much to Greylam’s relief. The smell of fresh greenery rushed into his nose, amplified by the cool humidity from the small streams running over rock formation that misted on contact. Once again, he felt serene, and all remaining thoughts of following Satele Shan to war vanished from his mind. Beside him he heard Tyar and Eonur gasp in awe.

“I didn’t know there was this much green in the whole galaxy,” Eonur muttered.

“Me neither.”

“This place is wonderful for quiet reflection and study. You can truly feel the Force at work within the garden,” Greylam said. He took a seat cross-legged on a knoll across from a still pond and closed his eyes. “I often come here to practice my meditations and-”

“There’s fish!”

Greylam opened a single eye. The boys had rushed over to the water’s edge and were now peering over it, pointing at the swimming creatures beneath the pond’s surface. They were laughing, reveling, but calm. He could feel that peace through the Force.

 They were new, and had much to learn. As he reached out to the Force in quiet meditation, Greylam thought back to Master Paddoq’s instruction and guidance, that making friends would help him become a better Jedi, that there was good in friendship. Perhaps this is what he meant. He would teach them. They would be his friends.


	9. The Hunter

Despite his best efforts, the airspeeder remained dead. Cirak huffed in frustration as he slid the wrench out from under the machine and then rolled himself out in suit. Just as when they’d first taken flight the repulsor refused to work, and any hopes Cirak had of flying away remained as grounded as the speeder itself. Though it had taken considerable effort, Cirak had managed to repair the speeder to at least a point of adequate functionality, all save the repulsor. With every attempt at ignition it would refuse to budge from off the ground. He didn’t care how long it lasted. Anything as much as a start was fine by him.

Days ago the Jedi woman had taken Tyar from him, but it felt as though it had been months. Each passing second filled Cirak with regret, anger, and bitterness. He had allowed his little brother – his only living kin – to leave his side, possibly forever. All he could hope was that Tyar was somewhere safe and not stuck like himself.

He was really starting to doubt the claim Kihts always get by.

With a grunt Cirak slumped himself against the speeder, too tired to even bother adjusting himself into a more comfortable sitting position. The heat from the underside of the vehicle had forced him to abandon his shirt as he worked on its repair, and he snatched it up from where it’d been heaped. His legs were sprawled out in front of him, and his arms hung limply at his sides. He felt so tired, and sleep called to him like an old friend, but he knew of whom he’d dream should he welcome it, and it was still too painful. All he could do was work on getting away.

It was nothing short of a miracle that no one had stumbled across him or the wreckage yet, especially one a planet such as Nar Shaddaa. All it took was one gang or errant criminal to stumble across him unprepared, and that would be it. His father’s blaster hadn’t left his side, just in case. As with everyone else who tested their luck on the Smuggler’s Moon it was bound to run out, and it loved repaying in kind. Cirak knew he had to move fast in order to escape her wrath.

Above him the city continued giving off its neon glow. Advertisements flickered in brightly lit signs beckoning him to engage in just about every product, luxury, or vice their purveyor could offer. Below him, infinite black. It struck him for the first time that he had no restraints left. Mom was long dead, and Dad had most likely just joined her. Tyar was no longer his responsibility. When he did finally reach the air, he’d have to ask himself where he’d go next. Offworld was out of the question without credits to spare. Cirak glanced down at the blaster. If need be he could hold up some small store, but that would only be a temporary solution. As unsavory as it sounded, a gang was the most likely was to ensure his survival on his own.

It was an entirely moot point for the time being. He’d first have to get airborne again before he could decide on anything.

Cirak started redonning his shirt when he paused. The only way he’d survive was if he worked. With an annoyed flick he tossed it away and slid back under the airspeeder, wrench in hand. “Okay,” he muttered, tightening the repulsor in place. “ _You_ are gonna work for me, or I will personally scrap you and sell you off piece by piece. Got it?” He tapped the wrench against metal, but all he received in return was an emotionless _clang_.

Sliding out once more, Cirak hoisted himself up and crawled into the driver’s seat for the umpteenth time. With a shaking hand he flipped the ignition again. The airspeeder hummed to life, vibrating gently beneath him. All beginning systems seemed functional. Muttering a silent prayer, he flipped the switch to the repulsor engine.

The vehicle violently lurched upwards, jolting Cirak as it carried him up. The repulsor roared to life, and though it rocked slightly with imbalance, it still floated all the same. He could fly. Laughing, Cirak engaged the landing module before turning the speeder off again. It worked; it actually worked.

Not wanting to waste a second longer, Cirak threw himself from the speeder as he sprinted towards his makeshift encampment around the corner, stumbling as his feet hit uneven concrete and rubble. The Jedi had left him the tent, a canteen of water, and some packages of dried fruit, all of which he’d found hours after they’d left. He’d used all three sparingly. From scavenging the refuse in the surrounding area he’d found a meager plasteel canister of fuel, which he kept inside the tent with the rest. Tucking the snacks and canteen under his armpit, Cirak snatched up the canister with his free hand and made his way back towards his ticket out of Nar Shaddaa’s depths.

Just as Cirak was pushing back the tent flap he heard the roar of an airspeeder overhead. He froze. It couldn’t be _his._ There hadn’t been anyone else around to take it, and the sound he heard seemed far more stable than the clunky mess he’d just fixed. This was someone else. The planet seemed to have decided that his luck was up.

Cautiously, Cirak peeked his head out from the tent and looked skyward. A red speeder made its descent slowly towards where Cirak’s prize lay waiting for him. He counted four occupants, but couldn’t make out any details from his vantage point. They were probably armed. Everyone here was armed.

Cirak crouched, darting over to the nearby corner of the building, the same one he’d crashed into days earlier. Chunks of rubble and caved-in portions of the storefront provided him some cover, and he ducked behind it. He set down his food and water, switched the canister to his left hand, and then drew his father’s blaster from his side. After taking another deep breath he peered over, finger resting on the trigger.

Now that it was at eye level, Cirak could clearly see the insignia on the speeder’s side, the same one that was painted on the doors of the one he’d stolen. Three goons, all aliens, emerged from it, each wearing some light combat armor more commonly associated with gang enforcers. They spread out in the perimeter of their landing zone, blaster rifles at the ready. Cirak shrunk himself down against the rubble, holding his breath as the footsteps drew closer. He could hear the thug’s bootsteps crunch against the graveled pavement, stopping mere feet from where Cirak hid.

“Nobody here boss,” the goon closest to him called back. His footsteps retreated, and when he seemed a sufficient distance away Cirak exhaled as quietly as he could manage before poking his head out again.

In the passenger seat of the airspeeder sat a portly looking human reclined in the seat, his stubby fingers drumming against the speeder door with a distinct note of impatience. His auburn hair was a single line of short running vertically down an otherwise cleanly waxed dome. What little hair he possessed fanned up at small intervals, giving a spiny appearance not unlike the spikes on a krayt dragon. Although he could only see the man’s profile from a distance, Cirak made note of metallic plating around his jawline that extended upwards to his eyes, masked only by a thin forked beard. Cirak couldn’t imagine getting cybernetics for any reason other than necessity, and given the man’s lack of scars it seemed as though he’d done it by choice.

The man stepped out of the speeder, his long jacket unfurling as he rose. With a gait not unlike someone approaching a long-lost lover he approached the other airspeeder, a single hand outstretched that stroked its scuffed-up hood. Its violet color had been all but scratched away in the landing, and its whole body was riddled with dents. “Oh my sweet girl,” the man said, still petting the vehicle, “What did those kids do to you?” He froze mid-motion and turned back to the closest member of his entourage. “You said there’s nobody here?”

“Uh, well, yeah,” he said, scratching the back of his head.

“Tell me then,” the man started. He whipped out a blaster pistol from his side and pointed it at the speeder’s seat. His puffy face turned a deep shade of red. “Why aren’t there two child corpses in the seats? Someone’s been working on it!”

“Y-yes boss, that makes sense.”

“Find them,” he barked, “But leave them alive. Only kill the older kid if you absolutely have to. The little one will fetch a good price with the right people.” He started for his own speeder again, brushing past his lieutenant.

_Blast it,_ Cirak thought. If they fanned out they’d find him in no time, and he couldn’t fight three gang enforcers by himself. Even one would be a challenge. He could try making a run for it and hope to lose them in the alleyways, but there were so many straight shots that he’d only end up with a bolt in his back. And he couldn’t hide. If they found his campsite then they’d know for sure that he was nearby, and they’d find him eventually.

Dad would know what to do. He always had some idea. Mom used to laugh about them, saying how sometimes his dumbest ideas would get them out of the tightest jams during their smuggling days. “Sometimes you don’t need to know what you’re doing,” Dad had said once. “All you need is a way out and a good aim.”

Cirak glanced down at the fuel canister, frowning. Right now he had the element of surprise, and he couldn’t use the speeder anyways if he was dead. They’d shoot him on sight if they detected him, especially seeing him armed. It was a very bad idea, but the only one he had.

Rising, Cirak heaved the fuel canister across his body with a grunt, hurling it towards the gangsters and the speeder he’d spent so long trying to fix. As it tumbled end-over-end through the air, Cirak tracked its path with his blaster. He released a steady breath. The canister landed at their feet, and they had just enough time to look up in his direction.

Then he fired.

The ensuing explosion rocked him from his feet and sent him sprawling to the ground. Fire swallowed the two closest gangsters before they could even cry out, and the charred remains of the third was sent hurling into a nearby alley. Fiery scrap metal spun out just above him, and Cirak felt wind rush past his face as it whirled by, nearly ending his life then and there. A cloud of smoke billowed from the wreckage, so dark and black that he could barely see it against Nar Shaddaa’s night sky.

Cirak scrambled for his blaster and crawled to his feet. Despite his distance from the blast, his ears still rung, and he braced himself on the building’s support beam for balance. Dust coated his hands, and the scrapes on his hands stuck against the blaster’s handle as he readied his aim.

He scanned the area again, heart racing violently against his chest. The explosion had consumed two of the gangsters, and spat the third out in flames, but he hadn’t seen the fourth, the leader. He was quite possibly dead, and Cirak just hadn’t seen him die. Not like the others.

Moving cautiously, Cirak approached the wreckage. Both his hands remained locked around his blaster. It took all the focus he had to keep them from shaking. Heat emanated from the skeletal corpse of the airspeeder. Metal screeched as its frame melted away, its sound like a wounded animal. Cirak gave the speeder a light kick. _This is gonna be a lot harder to repair,_ he thought with a smirk. Humor was all he had.

Before Cirak could react, strong hands gripped him by the shoulders and hurled him back with colossal strength. He hit the ground hard, and his blaster skidded underneath the other, undamaged, speeder. Cirak started reaching for it, but then he was seized up in his assailant’s grip once more, dragged towards the speeder. They slammed him against the door, and the impact denting it. Cirak cried out in pain.

“Do you have any idea who you’re messin’ with kid?” the gang leader roared, his spittle coating Cirak’s face. The flames had taken a significant amount of his face away, revealing the cybernetic implants underneath. They glowed red-hot, and the flesh nearest it sizzled. “Huh? Do you?!” He shook Cirak again.

“You blew up my home!” Cirak shouted. To his own surprise he felt anger, not fear. “You tried to kill my little brother and I!”

“Wrong,” the leader replied, shoving him to the ground. The passenger-side door opened, and as Cirak pushed himself up he realized that his head was right in its path. “I tried to kill your brother. I’m _going_ to kill you.”

Cirak threw himself back to the ground just in time to avoid having his head crushed with the same ease as a rotten gourd. He rolled, scrambling underneath the speeder as he narrowly dodged the gang leader’s grasping hands that searched for any loose bit of clothing he could use to restrain him. Locating his father’s blaster, Cirak dove for the weapon and fired two shots back. They found only empty air, and above him Cirak could hear metallic beats as the leader climbed over the speeder.

He planted his feet on the speeder’s underside and pushed off. The ground scraped his back as he slid, but he didn’t pay it any mind. Without a second thought he fired again just as the gang leader re-entered his sight.

Heavy weight fell atop him, coating Cirak’s view in black. The smell of sweat filled his nostrils. Clammy skin pressed hard against his own. The sensation made Cirak want to retch, and he scrambled out from underneath the corpse, gasping for air. Fresh air was a nonexistent concept on Nar Shaddaa, but that deep breath then felt the closest thing to it. He was alive.

Someone clapped behind him. “Well done!” Cirak spun towards the voice, blaster raised. All he saw was a silhouette against the shadows of the storefront, and he could only make out vague details. Tall and muscular, befitting of his deep voice; thick, broad shoulders put his wingspan wider than most other men, their size exacerbated by the body armor he wore. Cirak could see the outline of a blaster rifle across his back, and the man didn’t even seem to be considering reaching for it. “I’d lower that, kid,” he said, sharing the advice with a tone no more serious than someone suggesting a meal needed more salt.

“Are you gonna try to shoot me?” Cirak yelled back, keeping his aim steady. Enough people had tried to kill him tonight; he wasn’t about to lower his guard to let it happen again.

“If I was planning on that why would tell you?”

Cirak clenched his jaw. “I don’t know, but how’s that a good reason for me to lower my blaster?”

The man paused. “Fair point.” One hand raised cautiously in front of him, the man reached around his back with other a slowly removed his blaster rifle from its holster. He crouched, and in one smooth motion slid his weapon across the ground to Cirak. “That good enough?”

Hesitating, Cirak glanced between the man and the rifle. It could still be a ploy. Who was to say that he wasn’t carrying some other weapon at his side, or concealed beneath his clothing? But he had been standing there, watching long enough that Cirak hadn’t even noticed his presence at all. If he’d wanted him dead, he’d be dead. Cirak let his aim go limp, the dropped the blaster altogether.

“Good,” the man said, stepping fully out of the shadows. Even by human standards he looked pale, the only color in his cheeks being the red from the neon signs flickering above. The hair atop his head contrasted this feature greatly, as dark as the planet’s abyss and trimmed into a clean crew cut framed by pointed sideburns that curled inwards like horns. Sure enough he wore armor, the quality of which was unlike anything Cirak had ever seen. It didn’t have the same gleam or polish that he’d seen of Imperial and Republic soldiers, but twice as effective, its dark color suited for camouflage.

The man strode past Cirak right on over to the gang leader’s body. He rolled the corpse over, clicking his tongue. “Griph Griph Griph, not how you expected to go out huh? Always lookin’ over your shoulder…Bet you never expected a kid would shoot you in the face.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. After blowing a puff of smoke he stubbed it out on the body.

“Who was he?” Cirak asked as he pushed himself back to his feet.

“Griph Rymor,” the man said, casting a backwards glance at him. “The man’s been racking up quite a bounty since Coruscant. Well, he _had_ been racking up quite a bounty.”

Cirak looked the man over again. It all made sense, the weaponry, the armor… “You’re a bounty hunter?”

“One of the galaxy’s best. Which puts me in a bit of a predicament right now.” He rose, leaning against the speeder. “See, I only hung back because I thought you’d make a good distraction. Didn’t think you’d actually survive, but, lo and behold, you did, all while I was busy getting set up. I’ve been chasing this bounty for a while. I find it pretty disappointing that I didn’t get to finish the job.

“And, since I didn’t finish the job, I can’t be the one who collects.” The man gestured to the buildings, tracing his finger from points that Cirak could not grasp. “There are video feeds everywhere along here. If my employer wants this authenticated – and they often do – they’ll be checking those feeds, at which point they’ll see _you_ making the kill, not me.”

“How’s that my problem?” Cirak said, glaring. The man didn’t feel so benevolent, not anymore. He shot a cautious glance to his blaster again.

“I’m getting to that. Kid, I like getting paid. ‘Paid’ is one of my two favorite words that ends in ‘-aid.’ So, I’m left with two options. Option one: I break both your kneecaps, torch this rather fine airspeeder right here, and then get to work erasing any and all footage of you killing Griph Rymor, which will probably take me the better part of a week to get done. Big hassle for me, lots of pain for you.” The man shrugged, then lifted his arm to reveal a blaster pistol concealed on his person. Cirak cursed less-than-quietly.

“What’s option two?” he asked.

“Glad you asked. You, kid, have one hell of an aim and an even better survival instinct. In my line of work there isn’t a more vital combination than those two things.” He raised two fingers. “Option two: you join my team, and we all split the bounty on this one. Just looking at you I can tell you’d make a great hunter. Ah, don’t worry,” he said, waving off his own comment, “I’ll show you the ropes so you don’t flounder out there. So, what’ll be kid? Crushed kneecaps or credits?”

Cirak looked him over. The man’s face didn’t bear any hint of jest and he watched Cirak expectantly. For a moment he forgot that he was even supposed to answer. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.”

_I can leave._ Cirak glanced around him, then up at the sky. “Will I get to go offworld?”

“Kid the who concept of ‘offworld’ is going to lose its meaning to you with how much of the galaxy you’ll see.”

Cirak laughed breathlessly, the grin spreading on his face unfightable. The prospect of bounty hunting seemed far preferable to gang life or robbing people. There was nothing left for him on Nar Shaddaa. No home, no family, no Tyar… “Credits. Definitely credits.”

The man smirked. “Good, you have some brains.” He approached, extending his hand. “What’s you name kid?”

“Cirak Kiht,” he said, taking it and giving a firm shake.

“Taelros Obi’sey. Welcome to the team Cirak. We’re going to make a bounty hunter out of you yet.”  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've been enjoying the read be sure to check out greencrusader13.tumblr.com for more!


	10. Knights in Training

_3653 BBY…_

There was blood in the air, the copper-like scent intertwined with smoke and chaos and fear. Eonur felt it thick in his lungs, strangling him as he coughed, pushing his way through the haze. The blue glow of his lightsaber provided what little additional sight it could, but it wasn’t much. All around him he could feel the terror of the other Jedi permeating through the temple halls, the younger ones’ emotions running rampant. Their home was in ruins, the main hall aflame. The great statues and pillars situated there were nothing more than mounds of rubble. Overhead starfighters, Republic and Empire alike, screamed as they pursued one another across Coruscant’s sky.

And all the while he felt it, something he hadn’t felt since he was first rescued by the Jedi years ago. Hatred, a thick miasma in the air. The dark side of the Force.

As he continued down the hall a hand gripped his shoulder from behind. “Hey! Boy! Get back to work!” the voice said in Huttese.

Huttese?

Eonur jolted awake, launching himself upright while seizing his sheets tighter. His scrambling nearly sent him tumbling to the floor, but he caught himself in time. No sooner had he fully come to consciousness than he realized he heard laughter, the light cackling sound of a cathar boy perched across from him. Tyar grinned playfully as he balanced at the foot of Eonur’s bed, his hands planted between his feet as he crouched, looking borderline feral, and his red eyes sparked with mirth.

“What’s the matter Eonur? Did I frighten you?” he said, once again speaking fluent Huttese.

“Jerk.” Eonur reached behind him for his pillow, which he promptly hurled at his friend with the Force, who ducked out of the way with ease. Tyar rolled back, pushed himself to a handstand, and then vaulted from Eonur’s bed. Though he lacked Eonur’s innate strength, the cathar had been blessed with agility unlike any of the other initiates they’d encountered, and was prone to showing it off. With a sigh Eonur shook his head and swung out his legs. “Is everything okay?” His eyes flicked to the window, where golden sunlight was just beginning to crack along Coruscant’s skyline. “Did something happen?”

Tyar shook his head. “Nah you’re fine. Besides, Greylam would be the one at your door right now if you had overslept. Probably would chastise you with one of the Order’s philosophies or something.”

Eonur chuckled despite himself. “He’s been reading _The Collected Writings of Master Dorak_ again. I don’t think he can help it.” He stopped, then shot a blank glance at his friend. “What are you doing in my room anyhow? For that matter, _how_ did you even get in here?”

“Used a security spike that I made.” Tyar shrugged, as though the act of breaking into any part of the Jedi Temple was a frivolity.

“But…why?”

“In part because I can, but mostly because there’s something I want to show you.”

“Ominous.”

Tyar rolled his eyes and, with the flick of his wrist, flung Eonur’s duvet off over the end of his bed using the Force. “Just get dressed and meet me in five minutes.” Still facing Eonur he started to leave, exiting backwards through the door. “And if I have to break in here again because you decided to get some more shut eye then I’m dragging you down the halls.” The door slid open at his approach, and then Tyar was gone.

“Yeah, I’d like to see you try,” he mumbled, though Tyar was well gone by the time the words left his mouth. Eonur didn’t doubt that his friend would make some vain attempt should he go back to sleep. It was for both their sakes that he decided to get up.

How could he go back to sleep anyhow, with the dream still fresh in his head? Everything about it – up until Tyar’s disruption – had felt so real, as though he lived it. A chill ran up his back as he recalled the nightmare. In all his years at the temple, he couldn’t picture it so devastated, that the war would reach the very heart of the Jedi Order in all its terrifying chaos. Yet here he was, safe in his own bed, the Jedi Temple assuredly safe.

It was just a dream.

He dressed quickly, not wanting to keep Tyar waiting any longer. His robes, the standard faire for an initiate, was his fourth set in the past three years. The sudden onset of adolescence had caused Eonur to grow significantly in that time after spending most of his time at the academy as a smaller-than-average youth. His first he’d simply outgrown. The other two he’d tried preserving as long as possible, but they both tore despite his best efforts. He was growing still, and fast at that.

Tyar had his arms crossed when Eonur stepped outside. The cathar tapped his foot impatiently against the opposite wall, ignorant of the other initiates likely trying to sleep at this early hour. He was up far earlier than most of their peers, aside from Greylam of course, who most often awoke before dawn to meditate in the gardens. Most mornings they would both be asleep at this particular hour, yet Tyar was already his robes, but they were covered in light patches of dirt and grime smears. His black hair had been tied back into his usual topknot, but stray strands of hair stuck out on parts of his head. He’d been out – _again_ – and something had him excited.

“You ready? Let’s go,” Tyar said, waving Eonur along down the hall without even giving him a moment’s pause.

Eonur quickened his pace to match his friend’s stride. “Where are we even going?” He kept his voice low, though they were nearly out of earshot of the nearby rooms.

“You’re pretty jumpy this morning,” Tyar replied, flashing another playful grin. “I didn’t mean to scare you that badly. All in good fun.” He rounded the corner to the elevators and pressed the “up” button, which glowed red in response.

“It’s not that, just…” he paused, watching the unlit arrow on the wall above them. “I had a dream. A bad one. Right before you woke me up, actually.”

“So?”

“So, it felt real. It wasn’t like other dreams I’ve had that only felt real while I was having them. This one felt different, like it could actually happen. I’ve heard some masters talking about how sometimes the Force gives us visions of things yet to come, and I was thinking-”

“It’s not real,” Tyar said, his voice softer now, sympathetic even. The elevator opened before them, and he waved Eonur inside. Outside the glass Coruscant’s cityscape lay sprawling across the horizon. A golden sun rose just beyond the skyline, setting the morning sky ablaze with beautiful color, and they too rose with it as the elevator ascended. He could hardly stand to picture what the skies would look like ablaze, though he knew from history it had been several times before.

“I used to have dreams that I was flying with Cirak.”

Eonur blinked back his surprise. It had been some time since he’d heard Tyar mention his older brother. The name seemed heavy on his lips, and it took several moments before he spoke again. “We’d be back on Nar Shaddaa in an old speeder he fixed up, and he was driving so fast that all the lights blended together as they passed. It felt so real that I still remember the smoky air in my lungs and the rush of the wind and my big brother’s smile.” He shrugged. “I was nine when I had that dream, and I was the same age in it. I had it again seven more times. Four years later and not much has changed. I’m not on Nar Shaddaa, and I haven’t seen my brother since I was five. Don’t put too much stock in dreams.”

Eonur frowned, but nodded. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right,” Tyar said. Crossing his arms, he added, “Ugh, now you’ve gone and soured the mood. I was real’ excited for this too.”

Somewhere beneath them those remaining at the Jedi Temple were beginning to wake. There were some older Jedi already stirring, initiates and padawans who hadn’t yet left, but they were few in number. War had hollowed out the temple’s halls, and every day it seemed as though more left to fight for the Republic. It had raged on since he before was first brought to Coruscant, back on the day Orgus Din rescued him from Imperial captivity. If it was to ever end, Eonur doubted that such a day would occur in his lifetime.

Eonur hoped that perhaps by some stroke of luck he’d see the Jedi Master roaming the Great Hall one of these days, but it never happened. He’d only seen his rescuer once in the years following his liberation, just as he was boarding a starfighter with Bengel Morr. Too often he was away in battle. He’d hear stories of his valor, his heroism, and from personal experience Eonur knew they were all true. There’d been no opportunity to thank him, let alone for him to see the Jedi Eonur was becoming in large part to him. Even if it was once, a single exchange even, Eonur wished he could express the gratitude he held that words could not begin to capture.

Upon reaching the upper dormitories of the Jedi Temple, Tyar guided Eonur over to his room. His friend’s fingers danced along the keypad so quickly that he entered his own password incorrectly twice, and he barely waited for the door to slide open before pulling Eonur along with him inside. Tyar’s room was no different from his own, sharing the same simplicity, but it was due to this fact that the medium-sized lump under a black tarp by his desk became more readily apparent, even with the room still coated in dark. Eonur stopped in his tracks as Tyar dramatically gripped the tarp, poised for the unveiling.

“Okay, promise to be quiet?”

“What is that?”

“ _That_ ,” Tyar started, “is not a yes. Promise to be quiet?”

Eonur waved him off. “Yeah, yeah I promise. Just show me!”

Without another word Tyar ripped off the tarp. An astromech droid lay on its side, just barely short enough to fit underneath Tyar’s desk. No lights blinked, and the droid did not whir or shake as most did when placed in such a position. In fact, it appeared as though it hadn’t been active for some time. Its metal plating was rusted in places along its dome, and its whole body was covered in dents and scratches. Several emitters had been smashed, and from a basic lookover it seemed impossible that the droid would ever be able to play holorecordings in its current state. Eonur ran his hand down the length of the droid, incurring a light film of dust and ash on his fingertips. Even the model seemed older, decades old at least.

“Where did you find this?” Eonur asked. He could barely mask the amazement in his voice.

“I was down in the lower city again-”

Eonur pressed his palm to his face. “Tyar…”

“No, I was careful! Nobody even saw me go. Anyways, I was exploring, and I came across this part of a wrecked cruiser. Somehow scrappers never got around to tearing it up.

“But that’s not the best part,” Tyar continued. He rolled the droid over onto its face. There, on its back, was a painted sigil of a horned creature, an icon all Jedi had become familiar with in the years past. Years ago, before his or Tyar’s own time at the Temple, ships bearing that emblem had torn Coruscant’s skies asunder.

Eonur met Tyar’s eyes. “It’s Mandalorian?”

His friend nodded excitedly. “Looks like. I heard that Mandos don’t even use droids all that often, so whatever they had this one for it must’ve been important.”

“Do you think it was shot down during Hydian Way?”

“That’s what makes the most amount of sense to me.”

“This is incredible,” Eonur breathed. “I can’t believe it survived crashing from orbit.”

“Can you fix it?”

Eonur shot Tyar a sideways glance. “Fix it?”

“Yeah. It might have some old recordings on it that the Republic never found. Even if not the droid’s in good enough shape that we could probably pry loose its memory core if need be. So, do you think you can?”

The last time he’d worked on droid maintenance was as a small child, but the skills he’d learned as a slave hadn’t left him either. Threats of beatings – often fulfilled – instilled that knowledge within him for life. Astromech droids were simple, at least compared to some war droids one of his masters possessed. They’d been armed with plasma and a self-destruct sequence in case of irreparable damage; a “parting gift” for his master’s enemies. Eonur doubted the little tin can would be carrying that same destructive capability.

“Sure, I can, but am I really the best one to have work on this? I mean, have you even told the council about it yet?”

Tyar’s grin faded as the question reached his ears, his mouth flattening into a taciturn line. The sudden grimness startled Eonur, but he remained quiet for his response. “If I told them they’d probably just confiscate it and we wouldn’t get to learn anything. I’d probably even get in trouble for going out on my own again. I just want this to remain between us.” His eyes carried the plea with a greater volume than his words could carry.

“What about Greylam?” Eonur asked, but he knew from Tyar’s scoffing that it would essentially be the same as telling the Jedi Council. Even he – Greylam’s most staunch advocate when it came to these matters – couldn’t deny that their friend’s first instinct would be to run and tell one of the Jedi Masters about Tyar’s discovery. He likely wouldn’t even understand what the problem would be.

“Think about it Eonur: we don’t know what kind of data this droid might have stored on it. If it has some battle plans, or schematics for Mando ships-”

“They would be outdated.”

“But it could give us insight to their strategies.” Tyar’s tone shifted, foregoing his grim seriousness in favor of the enthusiasm he’d held when he first unveiled the droid. “It’s possible we could even prevent another blockade. We’d be heroes!”

Heroics aside, Eonur couldn’t deny the appeal of Tyar’s reasoning. If the droid did carry any sensitive information it could be critical in the Republic’s war effort. The Mandalorian blockade had nearly cost them the war back before he’d even had the opportunity to join the Jedi Order, and it had cost countless soldiers their lives restoring peace to Coruscant. Without the smuggler Hylo Visz, the toll could’ve been even worse. This droid could prevent something like that from ever happening again; Jedi were as much the shields of the Republic as their swords.

They could prevent his nightmare from becoming a reality.

“Okay, I’ll help.”

Tyar pumped his fist, flashing a toothy and fanged smile. “Yes! I knew I could count on you.”

“We’ll need some tools before we get to work on it, but they shouldn’t be too hard to-”

A knock interrupted Eonur’s instruction, and both their heads turned towards the door. “Hide it!” Eonur whispered. Tyar threw the tarp back over the droid as Eonur backed himself up against the wall, attempting to lean against it nonchalantly. He knew without even a mirror that he was failing spectacularly at that.

The doors slid open at Tyar’s beckoning. “Oh, I really should’ve expected it to be you.”

Greylam Cormat stood in the doorway, his posture straight and narrow and completely emotionless, like always. Eonur didn’t even need to see his face – silhouetted against the hallway lights against Tyar’s dark room – to know that his expression too was devoid of any expression. It was a fact about Greylam that Eonur had never fully understood, how to heart he took the Jedi teaching of “there is no emotion; there is peace.” Perfect tranquility accompanied him in every activity, more so than some masters in the Order. Eonur was as awed by his devotion to the teachings as he was troubled by how unnatural it all seemed.

“You’re here early,” Tyar continued, crossing his arms as he braced himself against the doorframe. “How were the gardens? Successful meditation?”

“Meditation isn’t something that is successful or not. That is not the point of it.”

“That’s not…argh, never mind. Still, I’m surprised to see you Grey. For all you know I could’ve still been sleeping.”

“But you weren’t, not unless you and Eonur have begun cohabitating, but I know you haven’t. There are policies against such arrangements.” Greylam’s gaze tilted towards Eonur is the slightest of movements. “Good morning my friend. I checked your room first but did not find you there. You must have left minutes before my arrival.”

“Morning Greylam,” Eonur said. He crossed the room, hoping to block Greylam’s view of the desk from the door. “Is everything all right?”

“Of course,” Greylam replied, “There is nothing to be concerned over, but I was just curious if you two would actually remember today or not. It would appear not.”

“What in the heck are you talking about?” Tyar asked.

Eonur broke his gaze away from his friends as he wracked his brain for some earthly idea of what Greylam might be referring to. It wasn’t a holiday, and they’d made no plans for the day to spend together. Lessons wouldn’t start for a few more hours unless under special circumstances such as…

“Oh!” Eonur exclaimed, pushing himself up from against the desk. “Oh that’s right!”

“What?”

Excitement barred Eonur’s mind from processing all the words needed to convey what they were missing. “Master Melara! Training grounds!” How could they have possibly forgotten? They had talked about it on end since they were first told.

Understanding glinted in Tyar’s red eyes as they widened in a look of equal parts joy and horror. Without a word he bolted out the door past Greylam, who in turn watched quietly as the cathar sprinted down the hallway towards the elevators.

Eonur stopped beside Greylam, patting him on the shoulder. “Thanks for getting us.”

“You were late,” Greylam said, “And I was asked.”

“I owe you,” Eonur said, quickening his pace to catch up with Tyar, already down the hall. “At dinner tonight would you like my dessert?”

“That would be nice.” Although his face didn’t contain any hint of it, Eonur knew Greylam’s words were the closest he’d come to expressing any sort of excitement.

“Come on let’s go!” Tyar shouted from the end of the corridor. If other students weren’t awake yet, they were now.

It was hard not to feel excited, for today they started a pivotal step towards becoming Jedi Knights. They’d known the day was coming, and now it had finally arrived. Today, at long last, they were going to learn how to wield a lightsaber.


End file.
